Footsteps of the Hawk

I reached in, pulled out the keys. Then I went around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. No light went on, but I had my pocket–flash ready, one of those mini–Mag lights that don't take up space but cover a lot of territory. The trunk was empty. Too empty for a car anyone used. I dropped the flash, bent to pick it up. Came away with a read on the license. A Z–plate— the little white car was a rental.

"Satisfied?" she asked, hands on hips.

"Yeah," I told her, stepping past where she stood. I opened the car door again, took the keys in my hand and stuck them into the ignition. But as I backed out, I slid the keys out of the ignition and dropped them softly to the floor.

I stood next to her. Close enough to smell her perfume, a biting citrus cover–up. Her eyes were dark in that alley, unreadable. "You wanted to meet," I said.

"He did it again!" she whispered. "In Westchester. It was in the— "

"I know."

"He's gonna get crazy now. He must be crazy— they'd never let him investigate an out–of–town case— he has to know that."

"Morales, you mean?"

"Who else? Who else could it be? George isn't gonna make it, Burke. He's not gonna live to take advantage of this."

"What do you mean? If the cops— "

"It's too late for that," she said, urgency overamping her voice. "There's a contract out. On George. In the prison. They're gonna kill him!"

"Who?"

"Who? I don't know who— what does it matter? Whoever Morales got to, whoever he paid. It's gotta be now, before it's too late."

"What do you think I could— ?"

"He's gotta get out, do you understand? Out! Out and away. After this is all cleared up, he can come back in. Surrender himself. After they find the real killer and clear him."

"How could I— ?"

"You could do it, Burke. I know you could do it. People have escaped from there before— there has to be a way. All it takes is money, right? I've got the money. If you would only…"

"There's a big risk— "

"It doesn't matter," she interrupted urgently. "Whatever the chance, we have to take it…before it's too late for anything."

"I'm not talking about a risk for him," I told her. "It's a risk for anyone who helps, inside or outside. He's gonna need a getaway driver, a change of clothes, some hair dye and a razor. And a place to hole up. A local place— if he tries for the Turnpike, they'll have it roadblocked."

"I know, but— "

"And he can't go back to his house. Can't go near it. Or near anyone the cops know about, Your best bet is out of the country. Central America— Costa Rica, maybe Honduras. And that takes long green, understand? Enough so he can keep paying the tab month after month."

"I can get all that. From Fortunato— he says there's a way to 'invade' the trust or something. I don't really understand it all, but he said we could get a couple of hundred thousand, easy."

I lit a cigarette, cupping my hands to give me an excuse to scan. Nothing was moving. It was so quiet in the alley I could hear pieces of paper rattling every time a faint breeze came by. Escaping from Trenton State Prison…it could be done— I know guys who have pulled it off. The joint is an old catacombs, with secrets only the convicts will ever know. There's lots of ways out of prison: Your case gets reversed on appeal, you score a parole, you get a pardon from the Governor. You can wait for Work Release and then just not come back. You can get yourself into an outside hospital and make your break from there. All those ways, it takes juice. The old way— over the Wall— that takes something else. I got the cigarette going, turned to look at Belinda. "Why me?" I asked her. "You know what it takes, and you say you've got the ticket. Why don't you just go do it?"

"I will do it," she said. "You want me to wait outside, drive the getaway car…anything…I'm down to do it, all right?"

"So you need me for…what?"

"To set it up. Somebody has to pull strings in there. George isn't going to escape if he's locked in solitary— that's where he is now. He doesn't know enough about how the place runs. But you do. You could get it done."

"And I get…?"

"Money. A lot of money," she said. "And anything else you want…from me."

I spent most of my younger years doing time— now all I wanted was to buy some. "It'll take a while," I told her. "Couple–three weeks, minimum. You can't wait that long, there's nothing I could even think about doing."

"That's okay. That's good, honey."

That last word was a test flight. I nodded— not shooting it down, but not turning on the landing lights either. "I need the money— "

"Up front," she said. "I know."

"Soon as I have it, I'll— "

"Can't you get started now? You know I'm good for it."

"I know that," I lied. "But there's no way I tell people inside the walls about you— I have to keep you completely out of this, for your own protection."

"Okay…I understand. I'll talk to Fortunato tomorrow It'll take a few days, but— "

"That's okay," I said. "Just let me know when you've got it."

"You're a doll," she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss the corner of my mouth. I felt her tongue flickering soft against my lips, opened my mouth just a fraction, put a little pressure into my kiss–back. "Can I give you a ride anywhere?" she asked, another test flight.

"No thanks. I'm going over to the courts," I said, pointing to my right. "There's a few things I can do. Preliminary things. Whatever little cash that costs, I can front myself."

"Okay," she said, opening the door to her car. "I'll call you as soon as— "

"Take care," I told her, turning my back and walking away, toward the courts.

I was halfway down the block when I heard a car pull out of the alley. I turned, looked over one shoulder. The white car was speeding up the block. I trotted back to watch just as it made a hard left through a red light.

I crossed Leonard and took up my old post, just in case Belinda made another pass. After ten minutes, I figured she wouldn't. Still watching the homeless man asleep on his hard pallet, I crossed over to the alley. Standing over him, I said "All clear," in a calm, quiet voice.

The figure in the parka–shroud stirred. "I do not see how they do this every night, mahn. I myself would rather be in jail." Clarence rolled onto his side and got up stiffly, rotating his neck to work out the kinks. His pistol was in his hand. He caught me looking at it, said, "I could not draw it from such an uncomfortable position, mahn. It was better to be ready"

"So where's the Prof?" I asked him.

"This way, mahn," Clarence said, walking into the alley. I followed him, one pace behind and slightly to his side. He walked up to one of the Dumpsters, smacked the side of his hand against it three times. The Prof's head popped up. Clarence and I each took one of his hands, pulled him free. A sawed–off shotgun dangled against the Prof's chest, held up by a loop of rawhide around his neck. When he landed on the ground, he make a quick motion with his right hand— the scattergun disappeared into the folds of his coat. "When it gets down to the clutch, I never lose my touch," the little man said, a wicked grin on his face.

Clarence pulled out a cellular phone, punched a single button. After a couple of seconds, he said "Come on," into the speaker.

Just as we were about to exit the alley, I heard the squeal of tires. Car coming, fast. "Chill," the Prof said. "It's Frankie Eye, and that's no lie."

Sure enough, a charcoal–gray Lincoln Town Car pulled to a jerky stop at the curb. The door opened and Frankie got out gingerly, favoring his left arm, which was wrapped and cradled in a white sling. He walked around the back of the car, opened the rear door and slid in. The Prof followed. Clarence took the wheel, I got the shotgun seat.

The Lincoln pulled away, a lot more smoothly with Clarence at the wheel.

"The fuck's all this?" I asked the Prof, nodding my head in Frankie's direction.

"I'm okay," Frankie answered for him. "The bullet went right through— just took a piece from inside my upper arm, under the shoulder. No bones broken, nothing. The docs cleaned it and packed it, gave me a shot. Just a butterfly thing, no stitches. I got to wear this sling for about three–four weeks, that's all."

"Yeah, terrific," I said. "But what's this about you driving? And where'd you get this car?"

"I can drive fine," the kid said. "My right arm's perfect. And I scored the ride from a guy I know in the neighborhood. A good guy— we go back— I was inside with him."

"And he wouldn't get upset if you wrecked his car? Or if we got stopped and the cops impounded it?"

"Nah," Frankie said, "he's cool. Besides, it's not really his car— they clouted it over in Brooklyn. Soon as we get it back, it's going straight to the chop shop."

"Just fucking beautiful," I muttered, realizing any cop in the city had Probable Cause to stop us. "You at least switch plates?" I asked Frankie.

"Sure," he said, sounding offended. "I ain't stupid."

"You got a registration to back up the plates?" I asked him. "You got an FS–20…an insurance card?"

"Noooo, I guess not," he said, looking sheepish.

"You realize they could nail you for that?" I asked him. "Put points on your license…"

"I…don't have no license," he said, head down. "I mean, Upstate, I never learned…"

"Hey, schoolboy," the Prof interrupted. "Frankie here, he's a bit slow to be turning pro, but— "

"Right on," I agreed, stopping the word flow from the Prof before he got on a roll. I extended my palm to the back seat for Frankie to slap. "Thanks, kid."

"That's okay," he mumbled.

"He dealt himself in, Jim," the Prof said. "He wanted to play, wouldn't stay away."

"Where can we drop you, mahn?" Clarence asked, his face in the mirror a study in calm repose.

I looked up, saw we were on Sixth Avenue in the Thirties. "Thirty–fourth's okay," I told him. "I'll get you tomorrow, fill you in. It's coming down now. Real soon."

"Soon's we know, we'll show," the Prof said.

The car pulled to the curb. I opened the door, stepped out, leaned back inside. "Thanks again, Frankie," I said to the kid.

"I'm with you," he said in reply. Saying it the right way—after he'd come through, not before.

I returned the cab, then made it back to my place on foot. Stopped to make a phone call, lined up reservations for tomorrow.

I caught an early flight to Syracuse out of La Guardia the next morning. I paid for the flight with the American Express Gold. Juan Rodriguez doesn't have credit cards, but Arnold Haines does. Pays every bill right on time, too. Arnold's a better citizen than I could ever hope to be, and he's got one big advantage over Juan— he can visit an RB soldier in prison without raising any eyebrows.

I rented a plain tan Ford Crown Vic at the airport and started the drive to Auburn, a max joint in the middle of the state.

They let me inside without a glance— Arnold's been on the Approved Visitors List for quite a while.

The Visiting Room was on the open plan. It was half–full. About as much as you would expect— Auburn's a hell of a distance from the city, where most of the convicts came from.

They brought him down quick enough. Silver looked good, healthier and sharper than when I'd last seen him. He was used to jailing, and he never jailed alone— most of the RB's membership is doing time in one joint or the other.

"How's Helene?" I asked, shaking his hand.

"She's good. And she's close by. Thanks to you, brother," he said, still gripping my hand.

"You need anything?"

"A few magazine subscriptions maybe. I could pass them around to the guys when I was done with them. A library, like."

"You got it."

"I appreciate you coming," Silver said. "But there's gotta be more for you to make the trip, right?"

"Right," I said, leaning close to him, dropping naturally into the side–of–the–mouth style of convict–speak. "I heard there was a contract out on a guy down in Jersey. Trenton State Prison. Guy's name is Piersall. George Piersall."

"If it's Brotherhood business, I can't— "

"I'm not trying to call it off," I said quietly. "I'm in it, but not on his side, okay? The whole thing smells. Smells bad. If there's something out on this guy, I think it's a setup."

"You want— ?"

"I don't want anything," I told him. "He's in PC now, this guy."

"That won't— "

"I know. But if there's word out— if, I said— then you should know there's more players in the game. More than you know about." This guy, he's also got an escape planned. That's gonna take juice. Inside juice. Which means somebody's gonna get left holding the bag, understand?"

"Yeah. If it's a contract, outside money, maybe we could wait. But if it's a Brotherhood thing…?"

"It's not," I assured him.

"Piersall. What kinda name's that?" Silver asked, his eyes on mine.

"He's white," I said. "And, far as I know, he's not a player. He's got no crew. He's not into juggling. He wouldn't make a play on the sports book or the drug action. He's short, real short, but there's a New York detainer on–and–after. He's not going anyplace, but he wouldn't start something up down there just before they transfer him. What's the point?"

"So you want…what?"

"I want to know if somebody paid for a hit. And I want you guys to watch your backs if that's the case. Okay?"

Silver lit a cigarette from the pack I'd left on the table. "Okay," he said finally.

We spent a couple of hours catching up on old times. The time I did, the time he was doing.

I was back in the city by nightfall.

I stayed up late, watching some pro wrestling on the tube with Pansy. She wasn't into it like she usually was. Maybe the product was getting weak— if it couldn't entertain Pansy, I didn't have much hope for its future.

I watched with my eyes closed, one hand on Pansy's neck, my old girl and I, reassuring each other.

I knew something I hadn't told Belinda. Hadn't mentioned it to Silver either. If there was a pipeline out of Trenton, the RB was collecting the tolls. The last three to get out, they'd all been members. The federales took one of them down soon after— nailed him backing out of a bank in Nebraska with a pistol in his hand. They pumped so many steel–jacketed rounds into him they could have used a magnet to drag him to the coroner. The other two, they were still at large. It wasn't like the old days, when Rhodesia was the safe harbor. And the Stateside white–supremacist groups were lousy with FBI agents and semipro informers. I don't know where the other two had gone to, but they did get gone. It didn't look like they were dead— the thing about being an ex–con is that they only need to find a tiny piece of your body to make an ID.

If I set up an escape, I'd have to work with the Brotherhood. And if they had an open contract, I'd be handing Piersall over to the lions.

This whole thing was a black diamond solitaire: plenty of facets, but no light. Belinda, Piersall, and me. Three liars, lying.

And Morales…?

When I got up the next morning, it was past eleven. But that was okay— I finally had something I could do.

Sitting in Mama's restaurant, I went over it again with Max. He was down for the job, but he wanted to drive. I nixed that— I needed him for better things.

We took my Plymouth to the Bronx. I didn't care who knew where I was going for this part. But I checked the mirror anyway….

Nothing.

"You seen Clarence around?" I asked the black man with the fancy Jheri–curl at the gym's front desk.

"The West Indian dude? Dresses real nice?"

"That's him," I said.

"He's in the back," the black man said. "With the little guy— the rhyming man."

"Much obliged," I said.

He stood up, not blocking my path, but coming close enough. "You the heat?" he asked, his tone friendly.

"Sure. And this is my partner, Charlie Chan," I said, nodding my head over at Max. The Mongol regarded the black man calmly, hands open at his sides.

"Yeah…okay," the man said, standing aside.

I found them all in a side room off the main area, clustered around a new–looking big–screen TV with a VCR wired in. They were watching a fight tape— I couldn't tell which one. We stood there, watching. Then I recognized it— it was Frankie's first fight, the one with that guy Jenkins.

We took seats, watched in silence as the Prof ran the tape in slow–mo, rapping to Frankie. "Okay, honeyboy, you see that? You see that overhand right? That move is chump from the jump, son. Telegraphing's bad enough, you sending him fucking Parcel Post!

"I see it," Frankie said.

"Everybody saw it, fool!" the Prof snapped. "You been gettin' by on toughness, kid. You keep climbing the line, tough ain't gonna be enough. Soon as you get out that cast, we gonna— "

"I could work with one hand," the kid offered. "On the heavy bag— "

"No way, José" The Prof slammed the door on that one. "We got nothin' but time, boy. Just lay in the cut, stay out the rut, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Frankie said. "But if I'm gonna get paid, I should— "

"Do what the boss says," the Prof finished for him.

We watched the end of the fight. Half of what the Prof was rapping didn't make sense to me, but Max seemed to follow it easily. Maybe having no audio was a help.

When the tape was finished, I pulled Frankie aside. "I could use some help on something," I said, keeping my voice neutral.

"Sure! I mean, if it's okay with the Prof."

"Let's ask him," I said, putting a hand on Frankie's shoulder, walking him into a quiet corner.

"How's this?" Frankie asked me, a wide grin spreading across his face. He was at the wheel of a white Cadillac Eldorado coupe, parked in the open area on West Street, south of Fourteenth, just off the Hudson.

"An El D. is all right with me," the Prof endorsed, offering the kid a high–five.

I didn't ask him where he got the car— right about then, I didn't want to know.

"You sure the ho' will show?" the Prof asked me.

"She's a Hoosier, brother," I told him. "Never passed Hooking 101— she won't even look in the back seat. Take my car," I told him. "If Morales makes a move, you're clean, okay?"

"Let's play," the little man said.

Max and I folded down the back seat so it was flat— a nice feature to have in your car if you wanted to carry a set of skis. We climbed in, then lay down with our feet toward the back of the trunk, Max behind the passenger seat, me behind Frankie.

"This is gonna be just fine," I said to the kid, pulling a light army blanket over me and Max. If you looked into the back seat, all you'd see would be a big empty space. "Keep the windows up," I said. "We got to do at least one drive–by, so I can be sure you pick out the right one."

"Got it," the kid said, pulling away surprisingly smoothly for an unlicensed amateur.

On Tenth Avenue, I leaned close to Frankie's ear. "Look, kid," I told him, "the way these girls work, it's always from the passenger side of the street. They'll come over, lean into the window, see what's happening, all right?"

"Yeah."

"It's almost impossible to see into these windows with all that tint they got on them. I'm gonna just slide up…here! Okay, now, slow and steady. You're a man looking for a piece of ass, checking out the merchandise, okay?"

"I got it," the kid said, a little tightness in his voice.

We made her on the second pass. Roxanne, still working the same block. Couple–three weeks, she was probably the veteran girl on that stroll by now.

"You got her?" I asked Frankie. "The white chick in the red shorts, white top?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, one more spin, you make the swoop. I'm going under the blanket now. We hear the car door close, we know you got her. Head for West Street, downtown— we'll make our move soon as we hear you say 'hotel,' right?"

"Right."

I slid back, lay next to Max. Felt the Caddy make a couple of turns, then slow to a crawl. Then stop. Faint hissing sound as the passenger window zipped down.

"Hi, honey. You lookin' to party?" Roxanne's voice? No way to tell— after a while, they even sound alike.

"That's exactly what I'm looking for," Frankie said.

"Where'd you like to go?"

"Around the world," Frankie told her, his voice deeply laced with the self–important ego of a mid–level Guido. "And I got the cash for the ticket."

"Ummmm," the whore purred. "That costs a little bit, honey. Would a C–note bother you?"

"Nothin' bothers me," Frankie bragged. "Except wasting time. You comin' along or what?"

I heard the door open, heard it slam shut. Felt the Caddy move off. Heard the snap of the central locking system. Okay.

"I know a good place, honey," Roxanne said. "It's just over on— "

"Yeah, well, fuck a whole bunch of that outdoor shit," Frankie said. "I got a nice place. All fixed up. You're gonna love it." The Caddy made a left turn, heading downtown.

"I dunno, honey," the whore said. "I mean, I'm supposed to call my man if I go off the block. Maybe we could just pull over and— "

"Your 'man,'" Frankie said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "You mean your pimp, right? You got a nigger pimp, bitch?"

"Hey! Be nice," Roxanne purred. "I got rules, just like you. And I really gotta— "

"When you see my hotel room, you won't be— " Frankie started. I tapped Max's left shoulder and the warrior slid out of his hiding place so smooth and quick I almost didn't see it. By the time I pulled myself out of the back, Max had his right hand completely over the whore's nose and mouth, his left resting on her collarbone. Frankie was driving straight ahead with his good hand on the steering wheel, calm as a rhino watching a jackal.

I pulled myself up so my lips were close to her ear. "Roxanne," I whispered, "it's okay. Nobody's gonna hurt you, all right? All we need are some answers. You give us the answers, we let you out, with a hundred bucks for your trouble. My man is gonna take his hand away from your mouth. Slowly, now…okay? Just be nice and calm. The doors're already locked. Nobody can see into the windows. You act stupid, you scream— anything like that— your neck's gonna get broken. Okay?"

She nodded her head vigorously.

I tapped Max's shoulder again. When he turned, I held up one finger. His big hand came off the whore's mouth. Slowly, like I had promised.

"Don't turn around, Roxanne," I said quietly. "This'll only take a minute. You okay?"

"Yes," she said. Her voice was steady, her breathing shaky. Close enough.

"You know my voice, don't you?" I asked.

"No!" she said quickly. "I swear I don't— "

"It's all right," I told her gently. "Nobody's mad at you. A while back, you asked me to do a job of work for you, remember? You got word to me through Mojo Mary?"

"Yes. But I— "

"Shhhh," I soothed her. "Like I said, nobody's mad at you. You used to be an actress, didn't you? That story of yours, about wanting someone to dust your man, that was pretty slick. Very believable. You have a lot of talent, girl."

"Thanks," she said, turning around despite the warning, looking me full in the face. No longer afraid, now that I'd recognized her talent. The left side of her face was bruised, the whole eye socket discolored. "I did act, you know. In school. When I first came here, I— "

"I know," I told her. "But right now, we're working on something. You were hired to do a job, that's all. The same as me. The woman who hired you— "

"She told me— "

"The one with the blond wig?"

"Yes! Rhonda. She said all I had to do was tell you, that's all. There wasn't anything else."

"I know. This man of yours, the one that was supposed to be in jail? What was his name? What was the name the blonde bitch told you to tell me?"

"Hector," the whore said. "She told me to say Hector. On Riker's Island. I wasn't really gonna— "

"That's all right, girl," I said, handing over a hundred–dollar bill. "Here, take this. Your man treats you like that," I said, touching my face where hers was bruised, "maybe you should get on a bus instead."

"My man didn't do this," she said indignantly, touching her own face. "It was that nasty cop— the one asking all those questions about Rhonda."

"What kind of questions?" I asked, gentling my voice so I wouldn't spook her.

"Like…where did I meet her, did she live around here. Stupid questions— like I would know where she cribbed. I told him the truth— I never saw her before she showed up one day. He was scary. I was just standing around, you know, blasé–blasé, just taking a rest, okay? He like charges up, snatches me by the arm. I thought he was a crazy man, like I was being kidnapped or something, but one of the other girls, she knows him, she told him take it easy, okay? God, I thought he was gonna kill her, the way he looked. Anyway, he drags me by the arm into his car, right there on the street, and he starts asking me questions. I answered him straight. Every one. So he asks me again. The same questions. I was getting real scared, so I told him, you know, time is money. Then he just started to break on me. For nothing. He slapped me so hard I thought he knocked a tooth out. He's one of those guys who hates us, I can tell. You know, the kind who drive by just to curse at us. They never buy— they just like look at us. It's disgusting."

"I'm sorry that happened," I told her, signaling for Frankie to pull over. We were just north of Canal, with a big wide spot to pull over. Perfect. "Here's where you get off," I told her.

She stepped out of the Caddy. Once she got her feet on the ground, she remembered her trade. "How am I gonna get back?" she demanded.

"Take a cab," I told her just as Frankie tromped the gas pedal.

Roxanne wasn't the first person who tried to hire me for homicide. Most of the hit man stories are myths anyway. You want someone to knock off your wife so you can marry that nineteen–year–old secretary who spends more time working under your desk than on hers, your chances of finding a pro who'll take your money, take her life, and keep his mouth shut— that's about zero. You ask around in too many bars, the next guy you'll meet will most likely be an undercover cop.

During the boom times of the mid–to–late '80s, some of those yuppies actually bought the bullshit along with the stocks and bonds, convincing themselves that power ties and five–thousand–dollar wristwatches were amulets, protecting them against having to pay up when their notes were called. They used money like steroids, bulking up their egos to where they were easy marks. For people like me.

I remember one especially. Young guy, on the sweet side of thirty, tanned and toned, as smooth and cold and hollow as a ceramic vase.

"It happens," he told me dismissively. "I was margined to the max, and I couldn't make the call. So I got involved in this bust–out scheme. You know what I'm talking about?"

"Sure," I told him. It was the truth. You buy a restaurant— just on paper, you're never going to actually run it. Then you use the joint's line of credit to buy everything: industrial refrigerators, china, cash registers. Even soft goods, like Kobe steaks from Japan and mega–lobsters from Maine. It's all on the come— cash in thirty days. Then you turn around and sell it. Sell it all— ata deep, deep discount, say 70 percent off. You take the cash and you walk. Run, sometimes.

"Yeah," he said, not convinced but wanting something more important from me than just demonstrating his superiority. "Anyway, one of the guys turned weak….He's been making noises about…going to the authorities. You understand my position?"

Better than you do, sucker. I thought, nodding my head in agreement.

"Yeah, well…I need some work done. And I was told you could…"

I nodded again, very somber, very reassuring. They never come right out and say it. They want you to ice a man or burn a man— means the same thing. Top him, drop him. Dust him, cap him, ace him or waste him. Blow him up, blow him away. Clock him or Glock him. Smoke him. Grease him. Chill him, plant him. Cancel his ticket, or punch it. Take him down, take him out, take him off the count. So many words— it's like they had an ad agency on the job full–time.

At ground zero, they say it straight— tell you to go out and do the motherfucker….

I told him I could handle it. Told him what I'd need up front. "That's the way it's done," I said. And the with–it twit went and got the money.

Got himself taken too— I didn't think he'd call a cop. I read about it a few weeks later. When the guy the yuppie was worried about went to the federales, he started a bear market in informing. The sucker I'd been dealing with was too late— by the time he was ready to turn, his information was selling at a deep discount, and all he really bought was some time inside.

Maybe he'll learn something inside besides how to improve his tennis game. I tried to think of a way I could have cared less, but I couldn't come up with one.

But those other people, they had really wanted the work done, This thing with Roxanne was bogus— it had mousetrap written all over it. There was no work to be done: they just wanted me on tape agreeing to do a murder— a handle to twist me with.

For what? To blackmail me into helping Piersall escape? That was crap— no matter what they had on tape, it wouldn't be enough to make a case. Most cops would just laugh at it.

But I couldn't see Morales laughing.

I thought about Mama's haiku. Footsteps of the hawk. There was truth in it, I knew. When the cops search a room, the one place they never look is up. They look under the beds, behind the doors, all that. But they never look up. They could find a roach on the ground, but they'd never find a spider on the ceiling.

Morales was a cop. All cop. Every chromosome a cop. He'd never look up.

But if he was the hawk, he wouldn't need to.

Late afternoon by the time I got over to Mama's place. White dragon in place, quiet. I came in through the back, thinking of how well Frankie stood up— how he dealt himself in on a bad hand— thinking, What kind of man does that?

I knew the answer when I walked into the restaurant, saw Mama and Max at a table. With Clarence and the Prof. And Frankie.

Frankie inside Mama's. With us— that was the Prof's vote. And I had too much respect for him to veto it, even if I wanted to.

I sat down at the one large round table in the place. The sauce–splattered old sign Mama always keeps on it— Reserved for Party of Eight— was gone. The table was never used unless we all needed to face each other at the same time. Didn't happen often.

If I needed any proof that Frankie had been dealt in, watching him work on a bowl of Mama's hot–and–sour soup closed the issue. Her soup was only for family— no exceptions.

"Is my boy an actor or what?" the Prof crowed.

"He was perfect," I acknowledged. "Good as De Niro."

"Joe Pesci," the Prof rasped.

"What?" I asked.

"Joe fucking Pesci," the Prof said in his the–subject–is–closed voice. "The best actor on this planet, bar none. He gets the call, he does it all. Man's so slick he could play a goddamned telephone booth and motherfuckers be putting quarters in his mouth."

"I didn't know you were such a movie freak," I said.

"I am a movie critic," the Prof announced grandly.

"Yeah, okay, I stand corrected," I told him. "But you're right on this one— you weren't there, I was. And Frankie was smooth. He played his role like a champ."

"I…like doing that," Frankie said, looking up.

"Scamming?" I asked.

"No. Acting. I mean, I know that wasn't real acting…but I really liked it. Playing a part. Being something else…I don't know."

"It's a mug's game," I told him. "It's all who you know, who you blow."

"Joe Pesci never kissed ass," the Prof announced, defending his man with vehemence.

"How the hell would you know?" I challenged.

"It's in his face, ace," the Prof said. "Kissing ass, it marks you, bro— easy to read as a true ho's greed."

"Yeah, sure…"

"Hey, schoolboy…you ever see Casino? How about Goodfellas? You ever see My Cousin Vinnie? You ever see Raging Bull?"

"I seen that one," Frankie put in. "De Niro, he was awesome. He…I dunno…he feels it, I guess."

"De Niro?" the Prof snorted. "He ain't no turkey, I'll give you that. The dude is strange, but he ain't got no range."

"De Niro could play anyone," I said. "He's a genius."

"Who could he play?" the Prof challenged. "A priest, a gangster, a crazy man? Sure. But he's always De Niro, see? No matter what, he's always himself. Joe Pesci, that's the real deal. Listen up, bro, my man Pesci, he gets to be whatever you see. He could be playing Malcolm fucking X if he wanted to."

"Yeah. Okay, you win," I surrendered. I looked around the table. "What's going on?"

"Investment," Mama said.

Max balled his fists, rolled his shoulders like a fighter coming in, shook his head No, tapped his left shoulder.

I nodded agreement, said, "Okay, Frankie can't fight for a while, right? What's to talk about?"

"We got an offer," the Prof said. "For Frankie's contract."

"From who?" I asked him.

"Rocco Ristone," the little man said. Saying it all with those two words. Ristone was a major player, just a cut below the big boys in the promotion racket and pushing them hard from behind.

"He came to you?" I asked.

"No, he came to Frankie. Tell him, kid."

"After the last fight, couple of days later, he came to the gym," Frankie said. "Asked me if I was under contract. I told him I was. Told him to who, when he asked. He asked me, what was I getting? I told him I got a hundred–grand signing bonus, all expenses, and the Prof cuts my purses one–third across."

"Damn," I said admiringly. "That's a whole string of lies."

"Ain't it, though?" The Prof smiled, extending his hand, palm up. I slapped it, but I wasn't satisfied.

"How'd you know how to play it?" I asked Frankie.

"From reading the papers. And the fight magazines. I figured, if he knew I was under a contract, he'd have to buy it out."

"You want to be bought out?" I asked quietly.

"No. I just thought I would put some protection on the Prof. On all you guys. Make them think there was real coin around."

"So what's to discuss?"

"Frankie," the Prof said. "We got Frankie to discuss. He stays with us, keeps knocking motherfuckers out, we maybe— maybe — get him a shot at one of them plastic belts in a couple of years. Maybe not. With us, you know he ain't never gonna get a real title bout unless he loses a few times, right? No way one of those punks is gonna have a fight when they can get millions just for showing up."

"With all respect, my father," Clarence said. "There are no guarantees, yes? Even if Frankie were to go with this Ristone man, he might not…"

"Well, we could still train him and all…" The Prof's voice trailed away as he caught the look on Frankie's face. It added up— no way Ristone was going to let us stay in the game if he bought us out.

I looked over at Max to see if he was following this. His face is a mask to most people, but I can read it. Max hears the same way a blind man sees. He was with it— staying inside himself, waiting.

"How much we got in this?" I asked the Prof.

"Well, you, me, Clarence, Max…and Mama now, we each put in five. We got those two dinky purses on the up side, got some expenses on the downs— call it a wash. I figure the whole dive cost about twenty–five."

"Frankie was sharp," I said. "He knew how to play it as good as if we schooled him ourselves. Most of these promoters, they take fifty percent, then stick the fighter with all the expenses off what's left. But Ristone, he thinks Frankie got himself a better deal, right? He gets his purses cut one–third, and got fronted a hundred grand, the way Frankie told it." I looked around the table at my family, hell–bound to do the right thing. About this, anyway.

"I say we cut the pie, and cut Frankie loose," I told them. "Ristone has to buy the contract back. Okay, there is no contract, but he can't know that. He pays us back our hundred grand, lets us keep five points— off the top, not off the bullshit 'net'— and takes it over. We split the loot, okay? Fifty–fifty on the hundred grand. That way, we each double our money, and Frankie scores fifty large right away. Then we get Davidson to represent the kid. We give him one point of our five points instead of cash. He'll go for it."

"Davidson's a righteous shyster," the Prof said. Meaning: he's a land shark, but for his clients, not for himself. For a lawyer, that's what you want.

"It plays perfect," I urged. "We score, Frankie scores…and Frankie stays in the hunt. What do you say?" I finished, looking around.

"One hundred percent on money, very fast. Very, very good," Mama responded, voting Yes.

Max nodded his head in assent.

"You will keep your colors, mahn?" Clarence asked. "I designed them myself, to honor our family."

"Forever," Frankie promised.

"When you get the belt, we all get some gelt," the Prof said, looking hard at Frankie. "Don't forget, boy…whatever you get to be, you learned all them moves from me."

Frankie had tears running down his face. He wasn't ashamed of them, played it like a man. "I love you guys," he said.

"Shut the fuck up, fool!" the Prof barked at him.

I was the last one to leave the restaurant. I'd called Davidson from the phone in the back, ran it down to him. He was game to play, said he'd represent Frankie on the contract "and at any and all subsequent proceedings," talking the way he talks, more vocabulary than content. But his word was good— straight–arrow, dead–serious, stand–up, go–to–the–wall good. Frankie was covered.

I smoked in silence, alone in my booth in the back. Frankie had been my shot to go legit. My chance to make a living on the straight side of the law. I know all about stealing. All about stinging, scamming, swivel–hipping my way through a mine field. I have great ideas, but I can never figure out how to sell them. Like Phone Sex on Hold, that was my best. You know how they put you on hold when you call most companies…you have to sit there and listen to some disgusting Muzak crap, getting madder by the second? I bet, if you could listen to some heavy–breathing bimbo tell you how hot you were making her, you'd sit there patiently for days. The only problem I had was how to know what kind of sex the caller wanted. Maybe I could use that voice–mail thing: press 1 for heterosexual, press 2 for homosexual, press 3 for bondage, press 4 for foot fetishes…Ah, fuck it— it was like all my citizen–ideas— good for a laugh and not much else.

This wasn't the time, anyway. Something was coming down. Something too heavy for me to lift. I was finally hearing the footsteps of the hawk, and I didn't have the firepower to shoot it down. The only thing I could do was not be around when it landed.

"I'm calling from a pay phone," the woman's voice said. "I don't have long. Do you know who this is?"

I knew, all right. Helene. Silver's wife. She'd left a message late last night, saying what time she'd be calling today. "Yes," I told her.

"He said it was a contract," Helene said, her voice as calm as if she were quoting stock prices. "But with the…new information, the contract is canceled until further notice."

"I got it," I told her.

"Canceled until further notice," Helene said. "That's what I had to tell you."

"Okay, thanks. Can I do— ?"

"Goodbye," she said. I heard the receiver come down at her end.

Hunting humans has its own blood–rhythm, linking predator and prey so deep each can feel the other's pulse. I know— I've been both. That's the jackpot question you ask a little kid who says he's been sexually abused, the one question that brings out the truth— not what did they do, but how did it feel?

I know how it feels.

When you're being stalked, it's not your feet that get you trapped, it's your mind.

I know that too.

It's a dance, a dance with rules. The rules don't kick in until you hear the footsteps. When that happens, when you're in it, you can feel the animal part of you trying to take over and call the shots. That's the right part of you, the part that can save you. Manhunting isn't a chess match— that only happens in books.

But you can't let survival instinct be the boss. When you're up on the high–wire, speed means nothing— balance is everything.

Fear is good. It sharpens your vision, keeps your blood up, forces all your sensors on full alert.

Terror is bad. It shuts you down, closes your eyes tight, freezes you in place.

If you break cover too soon, you're an easy target. But if you rely on your camouflage, you could end up frozen in the headlights.

The worst place to be is in the middle. When elephants fight, the grass gets trampled. I wanted to go to ground, play my trump card— patience. But that wouldn't work now. Belinda and Morales were dancing to the death and I had only two choices: pick a partner and cut in…or stand away and be cut down.

A little past five in the morning, the city still dark. Transition time: too late for the muggers, too early for the citizens.

"She's rolling, not strolling," the Prof's voice, on the cellular phone I held to my ear.

I cut the connection, slipped the phone into my army jacket, looked over at Max. The warrior was sitting in the passenger seat of the Chevy Caprice Arnold Haines had rented, breathing so shallow you had to look real close to see it, like a computer in wait–state. I settled back, waiting for the next piece.

It wasn't fifteen minutes later when the phone purred again. "Bitch just touched down, safe in the pound," the Prof reported.

"Mary, she lives there?"

"Yeah. Looks like she's home, but she's not alone."

"Little weasely guy, mustache?"

"That's him, Jim."

"Okay," I said. "We're moving."

"If she don't sing, give me a ring," the Prof said, promising backup. Then he gave me the address.

The building was off Third Avenue, mid–scale enough to sport a lobby, but no doorman. Maybe one of those co–ops that went all to hell, jacking up the maintenance costs to cover the empty units— first thing that goes in joints like that is the doorman.

We wanted 8–F. I looked at the name next to the bell: Johnson. Maybe that was Rudy the Weasel's sense of humor.

There's lots of ways to bypass a buzz–in system like they have in most apartment lobbies, but the easiest one is to just follow right behind someone who got the green light himself. Too early in the morning to wait for that to happen. Too early to run a UPS or FedEx hustle either. I was about to call it off, go back to the car and wait for a citizen, when Max pointed to the inner doors. I followed his gaze. A pair of heavy glass doors designed to open in the middle, pull–handles on each side. The glass was smudged, like it hadn't been cleaned in a long time. I made a "So what?" gesture. Max took a couple of steps to the doors, put one hand around each handle, and pulled. There was a lot of play in the doors, they bowed outward as Max pulled. I nodded my head, whipped out a flexible plastic strip and worked it into the opening. The 'loid slid in like it was greased, covering the slip–lock, forcing it back inside. The doors popped open.

We walked across the lobby to a pair of elevators. The whole place looked neglected, downtrodden. Maybe they fired the maintenance crew too. I looked up at the floor indicators, rectangular plastic with numbers painted on the inside. Only one of the elevators was working and its number 8 was lit— probably the last time it was used.

I pointed to an EXIT sign to my left. We walked over. I pushed gently, and the door gave way. A staircase, just like I figured.

We started up, me in the lead, Max behind. I walked slowly, testing each step. I went first because I could hear someone on the stairs before Max could feel them. And because I needed to set the pace: if you climb stairs too fast, you could be winded at the top— it wouldn't happen to Max, but I was a good candidate.

The stairwells were dirty, littered with cigarette butts too old to be yesterday's. Half the lights were burned out. I spotted a broken wine bottle on 4, a dead condom on 5.

I pushed open the door on 8, stuck my head out and looked around. The hall was empty. It was quiet— a stale quiet, just this side of rot.

The doors were all painted a uniform cream color. A bad choice— the parts that weren't chipped were mottled with hand–prints. 8–F looked sticky to the touch. I dropped to one knee, slipped a self–sealing white #10 envelope under the door.

We waited a couple of minutes. No reaction from inside. I pushed a little black button on the door jamb, heard it buzz softly inside the apartment. I stood back so whoever came to the peephole could see me easily. Max flattened himself to my right, his back against the wall.

I could feel somebody at the peephole, but I wasn't standing close enough to be sure. It wasn't my face I was counting on to get me inside, it was the envelope. An envelope with ten C–notes inside, wrapped in a piece of paper that said:

This is business. There's a lot more of this in it for you. I need something done, and it has to be today

I heard the rattle of a door chain, then it opened. Rudy stood there, bare–chested, his right hand behind his hip. "You sure you— ?" he said just as Max flowed through the opening like white–water over river rocks, pivoting on his right foot, the heel of his left hand cracking just below Rudy's breastbone. Rudy doubled over, airless. Max did something to the back of his neck and Rudy slumped to the floor, out. On the carpet next to him, a switchblade, still in the closed position.

I pointed to the hallway. Max glided over to the side of the opening. I knelt next to Rudy, quickly wrapped a length of duct tape twice around his head, covering his mouth. I razored the tape free, then I turned him on his stomach, pulled his hands behind his back and used another piece on his wrists. I looked up just as Mojo Mary came around the corner, naked except for the pistol she held in one hand. She opened her mouth wide, raised the pistol, but Max had her from behind. The pistol dropped to the floor and Mojo Mary stopped struggling.

Max hauled her over to the couch and pulled her down next to him. He held her in place with one hand, his thumb behind her neck, fingers splayed around her throat.

I pocketed the white envelope, then slid the clip out of the little automatic Mary had dropped, worked the slide to see….Sure enough, a cartridge popped out— there'd been one in the chamber. I walked over to the couch and pulled up a chair so I was facing Mary. Max still held her, but his eyes were on Rudy.

"Just stay easy," I said to her, my voice matching the words. "Nobody's going to hurt you," I promised, leaving the unless hanging in the air between us.

Mojo Mary took a deep breath through her nose, displaying her high round breasts and showing me she wasn't going to scream all in the same move. Like the Prof said, a pro ho'.

"This won't take long," I told her. "Just tell me what Morales wanted."

"How did you— " she gasped, her face showing fear for the first time.

"I've got people on it," I said, keeping it vague in case Morales worked her over the phone.

She took another breath. "He just wanted— "

"Don't lie, Mary," I warned her. "Don't even try."

"I'm…scared," she said. "If he knew…"

"He won't know," I told her. "No way he knows. Not from me, not from you."

"He made me…suck it," she said, her voice dropping so low I could barely hear it.

"That's part of the job, right?"

"Not his…cock," she said, dropping her voice still another notch. "His gun. His pistol. He made me take it in my mouth. It hurt.

He made me open my eyes. His face was right there. All sweaty and crazy. Then he cocked the gun— I heard it click. He said, if I didn't tell him, he'd do it. He said, I liked blow jobs so much, he'd show me one. A real one. Blow out the back of my head, that's what he said."

"This was in your work crib? The one on— ?"

"No. It was in his car. A fancy red car. He stopped me on the street, made me get in. He drove way north, like for the Triborough? But he didn't go over it, he made this turn….I don't know. We ended up in this scary place, like out in the country or something. It was…like empty. Just us. He told me, I didn't do what he wanted and he'd leave me there. Another dead whore, who'd care?…That's what he said."

I knew where he'd taken her. Ward's Island. Nothing much out there but a hospital for the criminally insane. Maybe Morales was checking out his new home, before he moved in. "So you told him…what?" I asked her.

"I told him the truth," Mojo Mary said, hands fluttering in her lap. "Everything."

"Now tell me," I said.

She glanced over at where Rudy was lying all trussed up on the floor. "Did you kill him?" she asked.

"If he was dead, what would we need the gag for?" I answered reasonably. "Nobody's getting killed here. Nobody's getting hurt, either. Just tell me, Mary. Then I'll be out of your life."

"I told him that girl, that Roxanne, what she paid me for."

"To get in touch with me?"

"Yeah."

"And about how you met her in Logan's, all that?"

"Yeah."

"You tell him what this Roxanne wanted? From me?"

"Yes. But I— "

"It's okay," I reassured her. "What else?"

"That's all. Really."

"Don't lie anymore," I warned her. "I'm not playing. You know me a long time, Mary— I don't play."

"I'm not playing."

"Is that when Morales put the gun in your mouth?" I asked. "When you told him that was all of it?"

"Burke, I…"

"He wanted to know about the blonde," I told her, not making it a question. Her eyes were little slot–machine windows— I could see the wheels spinning behind them, trying to wait on three–of–a–kind. "You got any doubts I'll do it?" I asked, stopping the wheel, "You don't know who to be scared of, I'll tell you, Mary— be scared of the one who can do it now."

"He's a cop," she said softly. "He can do it anytime he wants. I asked around…later. Some of the other girls, they know him. He's…been with them, you understand? He's not like other cops. I mean, he pays. Pays full price. But he hurts you, that's what they said."

"S&M hurt? Or— ?"

"No. He isn't into whips and chains, not like that. He's just…rough. Like he hates you while he's doing it. One girl…You know Irene? The redhead who works in the— ?"

"No," I said, not wanting her to stray off the trail.

"Well, anyway, she took a back–door from him. You know, Greek–style. I mean, he didn't make her do it. That's what she does and all. But there's a way to do it…a right way, I mean. It really don't have to hurt if you— "

"I know," I told her, guiding her back to the path.

"He didn't do it the right way. Just didn't care. She told him, but he just grabbed the back of her head and like shook it," Mojo Mary said, shaking her right fist like it had a handful of hair in it. "Real hard. Like he was— "

"What about the blonde, Mary?"

"He asked me everything. About her, I mean. And I told him. It wasn't much, right?"

"You tell me," I answered her.

"It wasn't. I mean, I didn't know anything. I mean, I don't street–stroll, you know that. She was buddies with this Roxanne, not with me."

"You told Morales that they wanted to hire me, get some work done?"

"Yes. But I know you didn't— "

"Right. I didn't. What else?"

"He said, if they ever called again— ever — I had to call him. Right away, before I went to the meet. He said, if I didn't call him, if he found out I was in touch with them without telling him, he'd find me."

"And did they— ?"

"Never!" she said, almost jumping off the couch with the force of it. "No way I'd— "

"Okay." I told her.

"Okay? That's it? You're not— "

"Everybody has to make a living," I told her. "I'm not mad at you. When Morales comes around, tell him the truth. Tell him I was here, asked you the questions."

"If he knows I told you, he'll— "

"That's right," I interrupted. "When the time comes, you decide."

I stood up. Max did too, bringing Mojo Mary along with him. I didn't bother warning her about calling the cops— it wasn't something she'd do.

"I'll leave you to get the tape off," I told her.

She knelt next to Rudy, put her face close to his. "He's breathing," she said, almost indifferent.

"I wouldn't stick you with a body," I told her. "Just cut the tape off real careful— he'll be fine." I nodded at Max. The warrior cracked open the door, checked both ways. Then he stepped out, heading for the staircase. I closed the door behind him, turned to Mojo Mary. "We need a few minutes, make sure there isn't any problem leaving, okay?"

"Sure," she said. "Okay if I go into the kitchen, get a knife? So I can start on— "

"Better not, I said quietly. "I heard you were pretty good with those things yourself."

"Rudy taught me," she said. "Taught me good." She turned her back to me, bent over. A crescent–shaped scar blossomed on one tawny thigh, just below her butt, "That's his mark," she said.

I looked at the scar, not saying anything. Mojo Mary looked over one shoulder back at me, still bent at the waist. I wondered if Rudy was going to wake up with a mark of his own. The cellular phone in my jacket buzzed. Once, twice. Then it went dead. All clear.

"You want to jet, now's the time," I told her, looking down at Rudy.

I dropped Max at his temple, returned the Chevy to Hertz, took the subway back to my place. I picked up Pansy, went down to the garage and pulled out in my Plymouth. Then I drove over to West Street, parked the Plymouth on an open strip of asphalt, slipped on Pansy's lead and walked over to the river.

The Hudson was calm— the water looked like the pebbled glass in those old–fashioned office doors. A giant red cement–barge sat on the water, the name Adelaide carefully stenciled on the stern. The captain's wife, my best guess. A brown tug with all–black topsides was pushing the barge upriver, probably to one of the yards in the Bronx, pushing so slow that a passing sailboat looked turbo–charged. Another tug with the same brown–and–black paint scheme caught up and ran alongside for a few minutes, then it pulled away in a wide sweep, heading back to base.

I lit a smoke, wondering why I felt so safe out there, open and exposed, a sniper's dream. It hit me all at once. I couldn't run, but I was safe until I did something.

They were stalking each other— and I couldn't stay out of the middle. I was a blind leech in muddy swampwater, searching for a pulse. The bigger animals wouldn't chase me, couldn't catch me if they did. But if I didn't find that pulse, I could starve to death.

The cellular phone in my jacket purred, making me jump. I pulled it out, my back to the river, scanning the wide street.

"What?" I said into the mouthpiece.

"I got it!" Hauser's voice, low volume, high energy. Whatever it was, he was pumped.

"Are you— ?"

"In my office," he said. Then the connection went dead.

No way to go back to my place, drop Pansy off. I'd been out long enough for Morales to have picked up my trail. Some other cop might have spread some cash around the streets— "Call me when you see this car," like that— but Morales wouldn't do that. When he was partnered with McGowan, he let the Irishman do that kind of work. Alone, he was a blackjack kind of cop, the kind you couldn't do business with. He'd pay a whore for sex, but not for information— Morales expected that on the house.

Scaring people isn't the best way if you need them working for you. It's okay when all you need is a piece of information— fear makes some people talk. But it's easy to overdose that kind of thing— easy to scare people so much that they freeze. McGowan knew the difference. Morales didn't. Or didn't care.

Morales wouldn't go on the pad, wouldn't take a bribe to look the other way. But he'd shoot you in the back and lie about it with a straight face. Morales had been out too long. He was rotten with honor, as dangerous as a nerve–gas canister in a subway car— with Morales, the best you could hope for is that the body wouldn't be yours.

I loaded Pansy into the car, headed south on West Street. I made a U–turn at Chambers, heading uptown. I cut east on Little West Twelfth, did some twists and double–backs through the Meat Market, then pulled over and waited.

Five minutes, ten minutes. Nothing. I knew Morales could track— he'd shown me that much— but I also knew he had no patience. I put the Plymouth in gear and headed back uptown.

I found a place to park on Eighth, in the mid–Twenties. I wouldn't leave Pansy in the car, not in this city. A guy I know in Brooklyn, he had a beautiful Rottweiler, kept it in his yard, behind a high wrought–iron fence. The dog would challenge anyone who walked by, but it couldn't get out. Some two–bit gangstah–dressed punk walked up and stood right by the fence. When the Rottie came over, the punk sprayed metallic paint right in the dog's eyes. The Rottie screamed, tearing at its eyes with its claws. The punk was still watching when the cops rolled up, the paint can in his hand, giggling.

The cops called the Animal Control people. They tranq'ed the Rottie, but it was too late— one eye was gone, the other burned right in its socket.

The Rottie lived, but it was blind.

The punk went to Family Court. He told the judge he was walking by the yard one night. He couldn't see the Rottie in the blackness. The dog growled, and he jumped, scared. His homeboys laughed. "Nobody disses me like that," he said. So he came back with the can of spray paint for payback.

The judge put him on Probation.

When he got shot in the chest a few weeks later, the cops put it down to gangbanging. At least that's what it said on the report. They never got to interview the punk— he died in the ambulance.

"No dogs allowed," the slug at the desk said, not even bothering to take the cigarette out of his mouth.

"Where's it say that?" I asked, looking around for a sign. The only one I could see said NO SMOKING.

"Building rules," the slug said.

"I got a pass," I told him, leaning over the desk, a twenty–dollar bill in my hand.

The slug took the money, dropped his eyes like he was reading. I took the stairs— I didn't want anybody running into Pansy on the elevator.

Outside Hauser's office, I turned the handle to the door. It opened easily. I walked inside, Pansy slightly behind me to my left.

"What the fuck is that?" Hauser greeted me.

"She's a Neapolitan mastiff," I told him. "Don't worry, she's mellow."

Hauser gave me a dubious look. I threw Pansy the hand signal— she dropped to the floor. "Stay," I told her. It was just to comfort Hauser— staying in one spot was one of Pansy's specialties.

I sat down across from Hauser, his desk between us. I noticed four empty white Styrofoam coffee cups— Hauser had another in his hand.

"You gonna finish that?" I asked him, tilting my chin toward about half a roll with thick butter oozing out the sides.

"You want it?" he replied.

"Yeah," I said.

When he nodded, I reached over and took it, flipped it back over my shoulder without looking. I heard the click of teeth. "Jesus!" Hauser said. "She just— "

"Pansy would catch bullets, you covered them with enough butter," I told him.

Hauser shook his head in amazement— like all real reporters, there wasn't a whole lot that didn't interest him. All the urgency he'd shown on the phone was gone— whatever he had, he was going to showcase it, slip a little bit out at a time. I didn't push him, knew there was no point.

"Loretta Barclay," he finally said. "That name ring a bell?"

"The woman in Scarsdale, right? The one who got killed…with the red ribbon left in— "

"Right," Hauser said, leaning forward. "The cops have been working on it. And it doesn't look random anymore."

"Because…?"

"Because she didn't exactly come from money, this woman. In fact, she's got a nice little track record of her own. How does a twenty–year sentence in Indiana strike you? She did three of it, then she went over the wall. Off the grounds, actually— she just walked away. One of the guards went with her. They found him…dead. In a motel room in Youngstown, Ohio. He had enough pills in him to drop a horse. Left a suicide note too, but the cops never bought it— it was too soon after the escape. And the woman, she just vanished."

"When was this?" I asked him.

"She was arrested in 1979, tried in 1980, sentenced the same year. She walked away in '83."

"They been after her all that time?"

"Right. The feds too. Turns out she met the guy she married in Boston. When she was dancing in one of those topless joints."

"That's kind of open for a woman on the run," I said. "How could she— "

"She had the works," Hauser cut in. "New face, new chest too. The cops think it had to be the same plastic surgeon. Beautiful work…no way to tell unless you had her under a magnifying glass. A lot of those strippers get implants anyway— that wouldn't make anyone suspicious. She dyed her hair, blond to brunette, let it grow real long. I saw a picture of her— a copy of the original they took when she was booked in Indiana. Believe me, her own mother wouldn't have recognized her. If it wasn't for the fingerprints, they never would have tumbled to it."

"So they think it's somebody from her past?"

"They think it could be. They talked to the cops here, but there's really no connect to our pattern. I mean, they were all killed, all stabbed to death…but that's all."

"So the big break, it's just that she was— "

"There's more," Hauser said, his voice tightening. "One of the reasons she got such a short sentence was she rolled over. She named— "

"Short sentence?" I said. "Twenty years? What was the beef, triple homicide?"

"Indecent liberties with a child," Hauser told me. "Forty–seven counts. Forty–seven. She was part of a ring, recruiting little girls for…movies. The oldest one was thirteen. It was a professional operation— they had a house rented near the state line. She was a dance teacher, modern dance— the kids were her students. When they popped her, she was looking at Natural Life. No question about the kids testifying like there usually is— the cops had the movies, and even an ACLU judge high on marijuana wouldn't have suppressed that evidence.

"There were four other people, three men and a woman. She turned them all in. And they all got forever sentences, Life Plus. She got to go to minimum security and then— "

"They got all of them?" I interrupted.

Hauser nodded, like he was glad I was finally with the program.

"All but one," he said. "One of the men took off just before they came for him."

"And the cops think he might have…?"

"I don't know. Me, I don't see how it could be. Why would he wait a dozen years? And why would he risk his own freedom just for revenge— the FBI's looking for him too. Besides, it's not like those kind of people have any loyalty…."

"You're right. And when they dusted…?"

"Nothing. Only the prints that should have been there. Whoever did it, he was wearing gloves, I guess."

"So this Barclay woman, she— "

"Not Barclay," Hauser interrupted. "Her real name was Thomchuk. Barbara Ann Thomchuk."

"Yeah, okay. Thomchuk. There's no way her husband could have done it? Even if he was out of town, alibi'ed to the hilt, he could have paid…"

"He wasn't playing around on her," Hauser said. "The cops checked. And even if he was, they had a pre–nup, a solid–gold one, drawn up by a top matrimonial firm in White Plains. He could just pay her some money, walk away clean. He wasn't having business problems, didn't owe money to the sharks. He didn't have a drug habit, wasn't a boozer. And her life wasn't insured at all, only his."

"So you think the answer's in her past?"

"Got to be," Hauser said. "Tomorrow morning, I'll be on it. I already got plane reservations for Chicago— that's the closest airport."

"Let me know," I said, getting up to go. "I think you're on the right track."

When I was doing time— after I hooked up with the Prof and stopped being stupid about my life— I studied this one guy real close. The Prof told me to do that. "Keep a tight rein on your game, schoolboy. You want a clue, watch those who do." The thing about this guy, he was a skinner. A tree–jumper. Slash–and–burn rapist. And he only did kids. I studied him because he could say anything, anything at all, and it would come out like he was telling the truth.

What really impressed me was him passing a lie–detector test. The cops came up to the prison— they wanted to question him about some missing kids. This guy, he told them he could lead them right to the kids…he said they were all snatched by the same ring of freaks…but he'd have to be out to do it. Let him out, no surveillance, and he'd call in as soon as he learned where the kids were hidden. It should have been a slam dunk NO from the cops, right? I mean, who'd take that kind of chance? But what made it hard for them was the way this freak breezed through the test— when he said he knew who had the missing kids, it came up No Deception.

Finally, they decided not to go for it…even though they half–believed him. I thought he had some trick, something I could use myself when I was out in the World again. But he told me it was no trick at all. If you don't feel things, you can't show them. You stop feeling deep enough— all the way inside you— and you never bounce the needles.

But it wasn't like he was a pure stone–face. He could laugh— even when he didn't see anything funny. He could cry too— Doc told me he used to do it in group all the time. Did it in court too, faking remorse the same way he faked laughter.

He tried to explain it to me. He said you could cry on cue— all you had to do was think of something bad that happened to you when you were a kid, something that made you feel real sad inside.

I tried it. Alone in my cell. Just to see if it worked. I went back, in my head. Went back to being a kid. But then I started shaking so bad I couldn't stop. My teeth were chattering, but the crying wouldn't come. All I got was those red dots behind my eyes, the red dots merging into a haze until I was looking through it…a red filter over my eyes. It made me afraid, that haze. Because the only way to make it go away was killing.

And I could never kill the right ones. Could never find them.

So I went dead myself. Went dead instead. At least I tried— I don't always pull it off. But when it comes to flat–faced, no–react lying, I'm an ace.

That's why Hauser didn't know what he'd really said— didn't know he'd given me the code–breaker.

And it wasn't in Indiana.

I knew it then— I was on the spot. Marked.

Judas–goated right into the clearing. If I walked away, it wouldn't be safety, it would be proof. Proof for the survivor.

I couldn't cover all the bets, not by myself.

I drove to the Bronx before morning light. First stop, the Mole's junkyard. He listened, his eyes somewhere else, absently fumbling with some electronic gadget he was working on. But when he nodded Okay, I knew I could take that to the bank.

Next stop, Frankie. I waited outside the two–family house he lived in. Actually, he lived in the basement, off the books. That's the kind of thing the city would bust a Bronx homeowner for…while ignoring the after–hours joints with no fire exits. When Frankie rolled out to do his road work, I pulled alongside in the Plymouth. He climbed into the front seat.

"I want to ask you a favor," I said.

"Okay," he replied.

"What I need— "

"I meant, Okay I'll do it, not Okay, you can ask me," the kid said, his voice low and steady.

"It's not crew business," I told him. "It's just me. And there's nothing in it for you— this isn't about a score."

"I never had no family before," Frankie said. "But I always knew what I would do if I did. I used to dream about it Upstate, the way other guys dreamed about pussy. I can get pussy, you understand what I mean? But family…? I know what I'd be if it wasn't for the Prof. A fucking drunk, with no respect, not from anyone. Specially not from myself. I'd rather die like I am right now than live like I was, okay?"

"Okay, kid," I told him, holding out my hand.

After he shook it, I told him what I wanted.

"Let's get off first," the Prof said to me. It was later that night. I was in the passenger seat of Clarence's Rover. The Prof was in the back, his upper body between the two front buckets.

"Can't do that," I told him. "I know it's one of them, but it could be both."

"If murder's the crime, one or two, it's all the same time, schoolboy. I don't feature this decoy shit."

"It's the only way," I said. "Here's what I know. They may both be in it, but they're not together."

"Who gives a flying fuck about that?" the Prof challenged, one hand on my upper arm. "Remember where you come from, son…same place as me, see? You know the rules. Hell, I taught you some of them. Listen to me. You been…messed up for a while. Ever since the…"

"I know," I told him. I did know. That house in the Bronx, The kid. The dead kid. "Don't you ever feel…bad about it?" I asked.

"You don't mean bad, you mean guilty," the Prof replied, eyes holding me as hard as his hand was. "I feel bad. I feel bad about a whole motherfucking bunch of things. But guilty? I'm not guilty, and I say that to the Lord, not to some cocksucking, ass–kissing, black–robed weasel–faced piece of dogshit scumbag judge. I didn't mean for it to happen— neither did you. And you know that. You know what guilt is, son? It's the evil people put on you. Like a hex. A voodoo curse. Guilt's nothing but loan shark's money, you understand. They don't want you to pay it off— motherfuckers live forever on the interest, like the miserable vampires they are, see?"

"Yeah, but…"

"There ain't no 'but,' goddamn it," he whispered urgently. "You feel bad, do something to make it right. But this human–sacrifice bit ain't shit. Remember this— they both the same color."

I knew the color he meant. Blue. "Listen, brother," I said. "I know what you mean, and I'm not arguing. I wouldn't disrespect you like that. But here's the thing: if one of them is bent, and I do the other, then I'm boxed. Down for the count. 'Cause one thing's sure, Prof— whoever's doing it, they're watching me. Watching you too— this wasn't hatched up in one night."

"I stand with my father," Clarence said. "Last time, they did what we should do— shoot first. This time, I will be ready, mahn."

"I'm gonna play it out," I told them. "We got two trains coming on the same track from different directions. I'm standing in the middle. All I gotta do is jump out the way just before they hit. I pull it off, and it's done. I don't and I am. It feels…right. It's gotta play the way I say."

"Your rhyme ain't worth a dime," the little man said. "But I love you, schoolboy. And I promise you this— you don't jump in time, I'll take what's mine.

Even when I was a little kid, I knew the truth. If I wanted to stand my ground, I'd have to steal some first.

My family is my ground now. All I've got. Everything.

If I screwed it up, if it didn't play the way I figured it…then I knew what had to be done. Knew I wouldn't be around to do it.

The Prof can do many things, but he's no assassin. I couldn't let him die trying.

So I did the right thing.

I went over to Mama's. Sat down in my booth and told her everything. She never made a note, but I knew it was engraved in her mind.

If I didn't jump off the tracks in time, Max the Silent would visit the people who had shoved me down there.

It was another three days before it happened. Almost midnight when the cellular phone in my jacket chirped like a damn cricket, jolting me awake. I opened the channel.

"What?"

"She call. Say you call back, quick."

"See you later, Mama," I said.

"You still— ?"

I cut the connection.

"Hello…" Her voice was trembly, trailing off to a whisper–breath.

"It's me," I said.

"I've got it," she said. "The proof. Certain–sure. And I'm scared. He could be— "

"Say where and when."

"Now! Right now. Can you— ?"

I said Yes. She gave me the address.

It was on Charlton Street, close by the river. Her name was on the bell: Belinda Roberts. I rang it, got buzzed in. It was a walk–up, four flights.

The door was standing open. Belinda stuck her head out, waved me on. She was wearing only a black jersey bra and a pair of white shorts. I closed the gap between us. As I walked into the apartment, she stepped to one side. I could see from the way it was laid out that it was the only apartment on the floor.

"Have a seat, she said, pointing down the hall. The place was L–shaped, turning a corner as you walked in. The floor was wood, bleached so white it looked unreal. The left–hand wall was all bookcases. The right was all windows, a thick cage of steel bars blocked most of the view. Straight ahead was darkness, the only light a baby spot, its rose–colored light illuminating a big wooden chair. The chair…I walked closer, took a look. It was an execution chair, or a damn good replica. Complete with heavy leather straps on the arms and a metal electrode cap. Above it, a glossy black–and–white poster: a photograph of an electric chair— the same chair? maybe…At the top of the poster, in blood–red letters:

CAPITAL PUNISHMENT

SOMETIMES IT'S A FATAL MISTAKE!

"What's this supposed to be?" I asked, turning around to face her. That's when I saw the big automatic in her hands. She held it trained on my chest, feet spread in a combat shooting stance, close enough for me to see the sweat on her face…and the long tube silencer screwed into the barrel of the gun.

"It's your turn now, she said, holding the gun dead steady. "Remember? Remember when I came to your place? Remember what you made me do? Well, now it's you I don't trust. I'm too scared to play around."

"What do you want?" I asked, watching her eyes— so I wouldn't have to look at the pistol.

"I want what you wanted," she said. "To know I can trust. If you're wired…if you're with him, I'll…"

"I'm not with anybody," I told her.

"Then show me," she said. "Do what I did. Take off your clothes. All of them. Slow."

"Watch my hands," I said quietly. "I can't take this stuff off without reaching, you understand? There's no wire. I'm doing what you want. Just don't get nervous, all right?"

"Why would I be nervous?" she snorted. "Because I'm a bitch, is that it?"

"Anybody would be nervous," I said. "I'm nervous. Probably more than you, okay? But I'm not pointing a gun at anyone."

"Just do it," she said. "Do it now."

I removed my army jacket. Very slowly. I dropped it to the floor, knowing the padding wouldn't let any of the metal clank. I pulled my black sweatshirt and white T–shirt over my head, dropped them on top of the jacket. I held my hands over my head, turned around completely.

"Do the rest," she said.

I unbuckled the black chinos, unzipped the fly. I went to one knee, careful to keep my hands where she could see them. Then I pulled off the boots, one at a time. Socks too. When I stood up, the pants fell down. I stepped out of them, waited to see if…

"Come on," she said, her voice as unwavering as the pistol she was holding.

I pulled my shorts down, stepped out of them too.

"Step away," she said, her voice deliberately harsh, the way cops learn on the street— keep control of the guy you're arresting— keep the reins tight — don't talk, demand.

"Not to the side, back! More. Get away from those clothes— now!"

I backed off. She came forward, closing the gap, walking splay–footed, keeping the pistol centered, perfectly balanced.

"Further," she ordered. The back of my legs touched the electric chair. "Stop," she said.

I raised my hands again, trying to reassure her.

"Sit down," she said. "In the chair."

I did it.

Belinda circled to my left, as careful as a wasp stalking a scorpion. My eyes followed her, but I held my body straight. "Put your arms where they're supposed to go," she said, almost out of my peripheral vision. "I've got to look through your stuff, and I can't do it while I'm holding a gun on you.

I laid my forearms on the broad flat wood arms of the electric chair as she stepped in behind me. I felt the barrel of the pistol in the back of my neck. "I'm going to fasten the straps," she said. "I can do it with one hand. If you move, you're dead."

I sat still, breathing through my nose to keep the panic at bay. I heard the metal–on–metal as the restraints snapped into place. She pulled another strap around my waist. I heard that one snap closed too, somewhere behind me.

Belinda circled back in front of me, walked over to where I'd dropped my clothes. She put the pistol on the floor, started pawing over my jacket. "You got toys, huh?" she said, pulling out the Velcro panel, holding up the handcuff speed key.

"I never leave home without one," I said, hoping for a smile. I didn't get one— she went back to work, rooting through my clothes.

"No lock picks?" she asked.

"Never use them," I replied, still trying for flip.

"Don't worry," she said. "I've got some."

Before I could ask her what the hell that meant, she turned back to her task, her face tightened in fierce concentration. I kept it quiet— maybe after she saw I was clean…

Finally, she stood up. "No wires," she said. "No guns either."

"I'm playing it straight," I told her, sick of games, scared real deep, trying to sound calm, keep her from spooking.

"Yeah. Maybe you are." She walked back toward me, pistol in her hand again. "You've got a nice body for a man your age," she said. "Pretty thin, though. You work out?"

"No."

"Too bad. It can make you feel real, real good, you do it right."

"I'll have to try it," I promised. "Now, how about if you take— "

"Just sit there," Belinda said. "It's time you learned what's going on. You have any cigarettes?"

"In my jacket."

She walked over, found my pack. "You want one?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Okay," she said, coming close, holding it to my lips, striking one of my wooden matches. I took a long drag, smelling her sweat— a sour, ugly smell. What had Immaculata said? Coarse?

She pulled the cigarette away, went back to where she was standing. Then she carefully placed the burning cigarette in an ashtray.

"That's one," she said absently, like she was speaking to herself.

"One what?" I asked, trying to keep her talking.

"Sssshh," she said, bending forward at the waist, arching her back so I was looking directly into her cleavage. "It's a secret. You be a good boy, maybe I'll tell you about it, okay?"

"Sure," I replied, trying to sound reassuring without spooking her.

"You want the truth?" she asked, straightening up, hands on hips, looking down at me. "This is just like the movies, isn't it? Where the detective gets everyone in the room and solves the crime? Well, there's only two of us here. And only one of us knows what's going on. So I guess it's my turn…" She walked a few paces closer, then stopped. "You want me to solve the crime, Burke?"

"Do it," I told her.

"I love him," she said calmly. "George, I love him. Don't give me any funny looks— I saw how you were looking at that painting in Jon's apartment…the one on Van Dam. I'm not like that— I'm no groupie— serial killers don't get me hot. It's not what George did, it's what he is. My lover. Since we were kids. That wasn't how it was planned, though. You want to know how it was planned?"

"Yeah, I do," I said, staying in my center, willing her to stay in hers too, stable, calm…pushing that out at her, a cloud I wanted to wrap around her, a mist on her vision, slowing her pulse with mine.

"The way it was planned, we were the entertainment. Did that ever happen to you? Where you go to a party and you think you're going to have fun…and then it turns out you are the fun? That happened to me.

"I loved this guy in high school. I mean, I worshipped him. I'm the kind of woman, I love you, I'll do anything for you. Anything. I was only fifteen. I didn't know…but I should have. When you look back, everything's clear, isn't it?"

I just nodded, wanting her to go on, keep talking until her motor ran down.

She put her hands behind her back, looked down like a bashful kid. "He invited me to this party. I was so excited. But when I got there, it was just him. And some of his friends. They didn't actually…force me. He said it would prove I loved him. So I did it.

"But that was after…First, they brought us to this big house in the country. All us kids, I mean. This old man was in charge. He was a rich man. A philanthropist, they said. In the foster home, that's what they said. It would be like we were getting adopted. We all went to live there. I was about ten…eleven, I don't remember. George was there too. And a bunch of others.

"We were the entertainment. The old man would do things to us. After a while, he made us do things to each other. Sometimes, he brought his friends in. To watch. At first, just to watch. But sometimes, they would do it to us too.

"I'm going backwards," she said. "I do that sometimes. But I'm not crazy— I wouldn't want you to think that. Where was I…?"

"You were the entertainment," I said. "First for this freakish old man. Later for some high–school jock."

"You are listening," she replied. "That's good. You're a good listener. Did anyone ever tell you that? I knew you were a good listener, the first time I met you. In Central Park, do you remember that?"

"Yeah. You said you liked my dog."

"I did like her," Belinda said, a hurt tone in her voice. "I knew what you were, even back then. A few months later, Morales told me. He told me what you do. He hates you. So he told me what you did. And I thought, one day for sure, I could use that. A man like you."

"What did Morales tell you?"

"He told me you were a hit man," she said, closing to within a couple of feet. "A paid killer. He said you killed a few people. He said you were a liar and a thief and a killer. I knew I would like you."

"None of that's true," I told her.

"Yes it is. I checked. And you know what? Morales, he helped me check. And then…" She walked in tiny circles, nibbling at her lower lip, looking down, the pistol waving aimlessly in her hand. I stayed quiet. Her head came up: "Where was I?"

"You said you loved George," my voice gentle and soothing, still trying.

"Yes. I love him. That wasn't supposed to happen. They made us…do things with each other. Me and George, we did it a lot. Even before we…could, like. I mean, before he could even get it up. When he was a boy. That's really when I loved him…when we were in it together. Like brother and sister, so close. If I love you, I'll do anything for you."

"What did he want you to do?" I asked.

"Kill," she said, the word as dead as her eyes— a pretty–painted house with no furniture inside. "The case against George, the one in New York, the woman on University Place, it wasn't really that strong. Fortunato said he could get it overturned if he had something— newly discovered evidence, that's what he called it. I was going to mess up the trial. I had this plan. I'd jerk George off on a visit, into a condom. Then I'd plant it inside one of the others. But that was stupid. George told me it was stupid— the only way you get the same DNA is from identical twins— it would lead them right to me. George wouldn't want that. Besides, he always wore a rubber when he…AIDS, you know. George always said he wasn't gonna let one of those cunts kill him from her grave. So I used the red ribbon. It wasn't that hard. To do it, I mean." She had her hands clasped in front of her, still looking down. All of a sudden she dropped to her knees. Dropped hard— I could hear the dull thud when her knees hit the wood. She reached her right hand behind her. When she brought it back around, a long red ribbon trailed from her fingers.

"I did it for love," she said, bowing her head again.

I sat there, strapped in place, working on calm, watching. I had one shot— one thing that might spin her. But the one shot was like a bullet in a derringer— the target had to be close. Her head came up slowly, a tiny bit at a time, her eyes going slowly over me, climbing until she was looking into my face. Now…

"You have no love, Eunice," I said softly.

She rocked back on her heels like she'd been slapped, face a mottled red–and–white. "You…" she whisper–snarled.

"Eunice Melody Moran," I said, moving into the rhythm, trying to wash over her with words, get her spinning, keep her against the ropes, then…"You changed your name. Easy enough to do. Just like Barbara Thomchuk did. I don't know about the woman on University Place…I guess George did that one on his own, huh?"

"How could you…?"

"I'm not a cop," I said, pushing her, working fast, closing in now. "I'm a criminal. A professional. Just like you thought. Just like Morales told you. There were seven people on the list. In that pyramid trust, yes? George was first, so he gets the money until he's gone. You're way down…last. By the time you got your hands on that money, you'd be an old woman. I don't blame you. It was brilliant, the way you did it. And I know why you really want George out of prison. You tried to have him hit inside. That was a pretty good plan, but you didn't know who you were dealing with. I do. I know those guys. I can make it happen. Right in his PC cell. One word to the right guys and he's charcoal. I'm no problem for you, girl. We can do this. Together, you and me. All I want is some money Just a fair price for a piece of work. You were seventh on the list, right? Five people ahead of you, not counting George. And George, he's as good as dead right now. He stays, he escapes, he wins his appeal— it all comes out the same. That's down to five. You did three of them….at least three of them, right?"

"Four," she said. "There's only one left now. A man. I just made that up…about the red ribbon. I got the idea from George. I mean, he didn't know why I was doing it. But he said, if I made them look like sex murders, they'd never suspect a woman did it. You didn't suspect it, did you? You're just a man. A weak, stupid man. Chasing shadows, and scared of them too. There never were any red ribbons. But the last one, a man…I can't make it look like a rape, so…"

"…so that's perfect," I finished for her. "That's the kind of work I do— you said so yourself. A hundred grand flat and I'll do them both, George and the other guy."

"You do think I'm crazy, don't you?" she said, a bright smile on her face. "I let you go and you'd run right to your pal Morales, wouldn't you? You're no killer. I asked around— that was all bullshit street gossip. You're a con man, that's what you are."

"I can get it done," I told her. "Why don't you just— ?"

"What, just listen to you? You're lying. You'd say anything to stay alive. Do anything too. I know about that. That's what I did. Did…did anything. That old man…"

"Capshaw?" I asked, trying to get her talking again, trying to catch her in a loop, anything…

"Capshaw? Oh yes. Capshaw. He's still making us play. Even dead, he can do that. He has the power. Money, that's the power. He told us. He showed us. And I was the last."

"What's this foundation thing?"

"The Adelnaws Foundation? That's his. And his friends' too. He told us about it. In his will, but it only happens if he dies of natural causes. He knew what we were. He knew what we'd do. So he made us wait. Spell it backwards."

I tried to do it in my head….SWANLEDA— didn't make sense. "I don't get it," I told her.

"Swan Leda," she said, offhand, the way you give someone your phone number. "It's from Greek mythology. Zeus turned himself into a swan. So he could rape Leda. Capshaw turned himself into…I don't know, whatever he was. Rich, I guess. He turned himself rich, so he could rape us. I was the last one. He called me, and I went up there to visit him. Just before he died. And he told me, about the will and all. I was last on the list."

"But if he told you— "

"Yes! You understand. You really do. That was my gift. Not the list— we all knew about the list— but the names, the real names…I was the only one who had that list."

"He knew what would happen…?"

"Of course he knew. He was my family, like he was my father. In my family, we know what to do. We all knew it, but I was the only one who knew it all."

My spine shuddered. I took a shallow breath, tried again, "Look, all you have to do is— "

"Here's what I'm going to do, Mr. Burke." She stepped on my words, focused now, her voice clipped and precise. "Listen good. And see if you still think I'm crazy. I'm leaving here soon. I'm going to meet Morales. One–on–one, I told him. And he's too macho–stupid to ever tell anybody else. He's coming to the loft, the one on Van Dam. That's where you're going to kill him."

"Okay, sure. I'm with you…"

"Sure you are, honey. Believe me, you are going to kill him. Morales has his notes. Somewhere, I don't know where, he's got his notes. He's an old harness bull, he'll have notes. He's been tracking you for a good while now. Lots of guys on the job know about it."

"Bullshit," I said. "Morales has no friends."

"That's right. That's why you thought he was the one shooting at you. At that gym in the Bronx. That was me— I'm a very good shot— qualified Expert every year at the range. I missed on purpose…and it worked. See, Morales doesn't need friends for this one," she said, a wide smile on her face. "Because you're going to kill him. Bang–bang, he's dead. And then you're going to come after me. Come right here. You were waiting for me. No sign of forced entry— you must have picked the locks. I bet they'll even find a set of picks in your jacket. And here's your gun," she said, waving the automatic. "Silencer and all. A real pro outfit. But I was too fast for you. I got the gun away from you and shot you. Right between the eyes. At close range, as we fought over the gun."

"It'll never fly," I said. "Who's gonna believe I was waiting— "

"Oh, everybody will believe it all right," she said. "Why, look! Here's a cigarette butt. And I don't smoke. Maybe they should check the saliva, see if they can make a DNA match. They'll have plenty to work with— head wounds don't hardly bleed at all."

"Anyone can take a— "

"I know. I just did. See, the problem isn't really you, Burke. It's Morales. That stupid grunt, he's been chasing me for a long, long time. Only he didn't know it, I don't think. He knew something was wrong with a couple of those murders, but nobody would listen. Any other cop, he'd have gone on with his life. But Morales, he doesn't have a life. Sooner or later, he was going to…Ah, it doesn't matter, does it? You and Morales, you're both going to solve my problems. All my problems."

"It won't work. Why don't you— ?"

"Shut up!" she snapped. "You're done talking. The only reason I'm not killing you right this second is maybe Morales won't show up on time. He could get in an accident, have a flat tire— I don't know. But I have to do him before I do you, just to make sure."

"It won't help," I said. "What I know, what I just told you— it's all written down. If anything happens to me— "

"Liar!" she hissed out at me. "Dirty liar. You don't have anybody. Just other…people like you. Thieves. Even if you did leave something, they'd only want money. I'll have money."

"What if Morales doesn't show up at all?" I tried. "Or what if he has backup? You could talk your way out of a lot of things, but not a dead body in your apartment."

"He'll show," Belinda said. "I got everything I need from you. Well, maybe everything. We'll see…."

She pulled the jersey bra up over her breasts, then over her head. She slipped off the shorts, stood there naked. "You think a man can be raped?" she whispered.

"I know they can," I said.

"I don't mean by another man, like in prison. Do you think a woman can rape a man?"

"I don't know."

"You and me, we're gonna find out, honey. Don't go away now."

She walked down the hall, an exaggerated wiggle to her hips, looking over one shoulder, blowing me a kiss. When she came back, she had a blue washcloth in her hand. She got on her hands and knees and started crawling toward me. When she got right on top of me, she raised her head, licked her lips. "I'm going to make you come, she purred. "In my mouth. And I'm going to spit it up on this," she told me, holding out the washcloth. Her eyes flickered under long lashes, looking up at my face. "Looks like you're not just a hit man, Burke," she whispered. "You're a rapist too."

"You're out of your— "

"No," she said. "No, I'm not. I look good, don't I? Isn't this perfect? I'm going to rape you. You're going to get nice and hard, and you're going to come in my mouth. Even though you know what I'm going to do with it. Even though you know you're going to die. You can't help yourself. Just watch…"

She pulled my cock toward her, stuffed its limpness into her mouth, sucked hard. I felt a tremor.

No!

Another, like a little shock wave. I couldn't…stop it. I felt myself go crazy, right in my own mind. I couldn't— she couldn't make me. But people did make me…when I was a kid. I felt that come back at me…and then the red dots flashed behind my eyes until they merged into a scream inside me and I snapped my head forward, trying to drive my forehead into the top of her skull….It didn't work— the leather straps pulled me up short. She craned her neck, looking up at me from under her bangs, my cock still in her mouth. She winked at me like we were sharing a joke— then she went back to work. I looked down, looked at her mass of chestnut curls covering my lap. And I went dead.

She tried for another few minutes, licking, sucking, making little noises. But I stayed dead.

Her head came up, lunatic eyes shining with joy. "It doesn't matter," she said. "You just sit here, be a good boy. Maybe, if you're real good, when I get back, I'll give you another chance."

She got to her feet, brought her face down to where we were almost touching, closed her eyes, and spit full in my face.

When I opened my eyes again, she was at the end of the hail, dressed in a yellow turtleneck and black pants, a pocketbook over one shoulder.

"See you soon," she said, and blew me a kiss.

Strapped in that chair, waiting, I was cold. Not from the temperature, from inside me. I went into that safe place, the place where ice cauterizes, makes you numb. You can think things there, but you can't feel them. I didn't want to feel….The only option on that menu was Terror.

I had a plan going in— I thought it over first. It was a good plan— no way Belinda was going to kill me in her own apartment— too many risks. How could she explain it to the cops?

But after she explained it to me, I could see it happening.

Getting people out of the way, that was the real plan. Hauser was too much of a news hound to let him stay around. No telling what kind of stunt he'd pull if he thought there was a story in it. The Prof and Clarence, they were professionals all right, but they were my family first. The last time I got them in something…that time in the Bronx…I wasn't going to do that again.

I wanted to save Max for vengeance. If it came to that, he could take his time, work around the edges, strike when it was safe. Max isn't bulletproof— but if you don't know he's coming, he can't be stopped.

I had my backup ready: brains and muscle both. The Mole and Frankie. Only the Mole is a lunatic and Frankie's down to one arm.

I rocked in the chair, trying to tip it over. Maybe I could get free that way— maybe the crash would say something to the people downstairs. She hadn't put a gag in my mouth, so I figured yelling would be a waste of time. I shoved hard to my right— the chair didn't budge. I couldn't see where the legs met the floor, but I guess it was anchored somehow.

Calm, stay calm. I tried to remember everything I'd learned about escapes. There was a young guy I did time with once. He could get out of handcuffs like he was greased. The trick was to fold your hands over so they were no wider than your wrist— he was always practicing it. He would let you hold his wrist, tight as you wanted. And then just pull it free. I tried, but it was no good. Something like that takes practice….

There was a little play in the waist strap— I had pushed all the air in my lungs into my stomach when I saw what Belinda was going to do— I'd remembered at least that much. But it wasn't enough…I just had more room to squirm, a worm on a hook.

I could feel the baby spot beaming down on me, a hot, focused light. It was so quiet I could hear my heart beat…faster than I wanted, but still below the panic line. Maybe Morales would get the drop on her…Then all I'd have to worry about was starving to death.

If there's a way in, there's a way out. I said it to myself, over and over again, a mantra that gave me no peace. If only I had…

I heard the deadbolt on the front door snap open. The sound froze my heart. I stopped breathing. A thin beam of light came around the corner.

"Jesus Christ!" It was Frankie, a flashlight in his hand, the lens taped so only a sliver of light came through. He came forward slowly, wary as a stray dog offered food.

"I'm okay," I told him, willing calm into my voice. "But hurry it up, all right?"

He moved quickly to where I was strapped in. I saw the Mole materialize over his left shoulder, his leather satchel in his hand. The Mole pushed Frankie out of the way, held up his hand so Frankie couldn't get any closer.

"You wired up?" he asked me, making a sniffing noise like a bomb dog.

"No."

The Mole nodded, satisfied. He put his satchel on the floor, knelt to open it. Then he carefully examined the straps through his Coke–bottle glasses. He shook his head in disgust, reached in his satchel and came out with what looked like a giant pair of scissors. The scissors had a pistol grip on one side with a wide handle on the other, a spring between them. The Mole worked it under the strap on my left arm, resting the base of the scissors on the chair itself. He leaned forward, grunting with effort, and the thick leather parted. I flexed my arm, working some of the stiffness out while the Mole did the other strap, around my right arm. I could have slipped out then, but the Mole did the waist strap too, and I was free.

"She went out the front door, headed downtown," Frankie said. "We couldn't follow her. I mean, not and get in here too."

"You did the right thing," I told him, climbing into my clothes. "It doesn't matter anyway— I know where she's going."

"Can we— ?" Frankie asked.

"You got a car?" I interrupted.

"We got the Mole's…truck, I guess it is," Frankie said. "He picked me up in it."

I knew what he meant— the beat–up old panel truck with the name of a kosher butcher on the side that the Mole used to get around in.

"Let's go," I told them.

The Mole drove like he always did, with bat–blind incompetence, like he had a sonar system in his head but it wasn't working too good. The panel truck yawed around corners. Every pothole sent my head toward the roof.

"You have any trouble with the locks?" I asked the Mole.

He gave me a "Don't be stupid" look, sawing at the big steering wheel to negotiate another corner.

We drove up Van Dam slowly, seeing if…Nothing— the street was quiet. Morales' screaming–red sports car was parked right in front of the loft. I used Frankie's flashlight on its windshield— it was empty. We turned on Greenwich and doubled back, parking on Charlton— the loft on Van Dam was just through the alley.

"You got a piece?" I asked Frankie.

"No. I mean, you didn't— "

"That's okay," I said. "Mole?"

"I have some grenades," the lunatic replied. In his world, the subject of individual targets doesn't come up much.

"Stay here," I told him. "Frankie'll be back in a minute. Then take off, okay?"

The Mole nodded, as miserly with words as always. I took off down the alley, Frankie right behind. He may not have been a world–class burglar when he was doing houses, but he knew how to move: quick and careful. I located the building, eye–checked it, taking stock. A rusty fire escape ran up the back of the building. The loft was on the second floor. I looked to the rooftops. The buildings were so close together you could travel the length of the block and never touch the street.

No way I was going to ring that bell, ask Belinda to throw down the key. I knew what she'd throw down if she saw me coming.

Frankie saw the look on my face. "What can I do?" he asked, hard truth in his voice.

"One more thing, brother," I told him. "I gotta get on that fire escape. Get on quiet, understand? And it's too high for me to jump."

"I'm with you," Frankie said, planting his feet, bending at the knees, cupping his right hand. I stepped into the cup with one foot, jumped off with the other one just as Frankie heaved up with all his strength. For a second, I was floating….Then I grabbed the base of the fire escape with both hands and hauled myself up. I turned from my perch, looked down at Frankie. I made my right hand into a fist, held it right next to my face. Frankie made the same gesture from below, answering. I moved both hands in a "Get the hell out of here!" gesture. Then I turned my back on Frankie and went to work.

I took a black shadow–marker out of my pocket, smeared it over my face in a random pattern. I pulled a black wool watch cap over my hair, slipped the black gloves on my hands. The window into the loft was closed, pitch black from years of city soot— I couldn't tell if it was dark inside or if I just couldn't see through the glass. No bars on the window— strange in this neighborhood. I got my hands under the frame, shoved up slowly. Nothing. I braced myself, shoved with all my strength. It didn't budge. I pulled a black silk handkerchief from my jacket, spit on it and rubbed a clear circle on the glass. Still couldn't see anything.

I ran my fingers over the window. Old plate glass, not even Thermo–paned. No wires in it either. In this neighborhood? Maybe a motion detector…

I took a deep breath. Let it out slow. Then I took off my jacket, pulled it open like a shield over my face, and kicked in the glass. It shattered easy enough. I came all the way through behind it, the jacket protecting my face and arms. I rolled into the room, staying low, the plastic knife in my hand.

For a second, I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Then I heard footsteps, running. Heard a door slam. I moved along the wall, heading for a patch of light I saw off to my right. I peeked around the corner, looked into that big room with all the Retro crap scattered around. I heard a grunting sound. Who…?

Morales. On his back, head propped against the base of the couch. His shirt was white, but his chest was red, a spreading stain. I ran over, dropped down next to him.

He opened his eyes, looked at me. If he was surprised, he didn't show it. "Bitch shot me," he said through clenched teeth. "Got the drop on me, took my piece. Told me the whole story— like she was getting her rocks off, telling me. Then she just stepped back and fucking shot me."

"Don't talk," I said. "I'll— "

"Bitch shoulda known I always carry a spare," he said, straining with every word. That's when I saw the pistol in his fist, a cheap–shit .25–caliber Raven automatic— the favorite of low–level gangbangers, a perfect throw–down piece. "She had the gun up, ready to finish me— bitch didn't see this one. I was just about to take my shot when I heard the glass go. She took off."

"They'll get her," I said. "It's all over now. Just— "

"I'm done," Morales said. "She caught a fucking lung— I can feel it. She gets away, you're done too. She won't go out the front door— she's gonna use the roof, make a run for it. Take…"

His head slumped on his chest, lolling to one side. I put my ear close to his face. I could hear him breathing, but it wasn't much.

"Don't give me up," I said, dropping the cellular phone next to his hand— the same hand I pulled the pistol out of. Then I straightened up and started for Belinda.

I found the inside staircase to the roof at the end of the hall. Flattened my back against the wall and pushed it open with the barrel of the pistol. It moved easy. I counted to five in my mind, then slipped inside. Still nothing. Up the stairs, step–by–step, slowly, slowly…all the way to the roof.

She'd be running now. Running hard. She couldn't be sure Morales was dead, couldn't go back to her apartment. Did she have a car stashed somewhere? Money? A passport?

It didn't feel like that. She'd gambled everything on a pair of murders— she'd left me staked out, went off to do Morales…but the bridge she built had collapsed under her feet.

I crawled out onto the roof, snaking my way forward using my elbows and feet. Nothing. I stopped, went quiet, listening to the night. The sound of breaking glass wouldn't bring the cops in this part of town— the other apartments were empty anyway. And she'd had enough time to get completely off the block. I couldn't stay around, not with Morales maybe dead right beneath me. I stood up to wide–angle a look at the other roofs, trying to spot a flash from her yellow turtleneck. A piece of brick flew off the chimney a couple of inches from my face. I hit the ground, rolled to my right fast as I could just as another pair of shots smacked into the brick where my chest would have been. No sound…She must be using her own piece— the one with the silencer.

I couldn't tell where the shots had come from, but they had to be close.

No more footsteps to hear— now the hawk was on the ground, talons out.

I crawled backward until most of my body was behind the chimney. Would she think she'd hit me, come over to finish me off? No…she couldn't be sure. Time was grinding to a stop, everything in slow motion. But I knew it was an illusion— knew time was the enemy too. I counted my options, came down to one.

"It's me, Belinda," I called softly. "I got out of your place. Morales is dead— your plan is shot. We have to do this together now, girl. You and me."

"You're a liar!" Belinda's voice, a viper's hiss slashing through the night. I couldn't follow the sound to the source, but she had to be close. Real close.

"I'm not lying," I said out of the darkness. "I'm too scared to lie. It's over now You pulled it off. All I want to do is get out of here alive."

"Liar!" she hissed again, a robot, locked in by its programming.

"I just want some of the money," I called to her. "Just a piece, okay? We can't stay up here. Sooner or later, the cops are gonna come. I can alibi you. Foolproof. The Chinese restaurant, that's where we were tonight. Together. A dozen people saw us. You were right— Morales wouldn't have any notes. It's you and me now."

"You swear?"

"I swear on my mother's life," I told her.

"Stand up where I can see you," she called back.

"No way. You've got a gun— I don't. I'm not getting myself— "

"I'll throw it away," she promised. "Watch."

Something silver flashed to my left, a high arc. I heard the sound of metal hitting the roof. "I gave it up," she called, her voice closer now. "Now stand up where I can see you."

"You first," I told her. "I can't see where it landed— I'm not letting you run over and pick it up."

"I'm coming," she said, stepping out from behind a maintenance shack, hands in the air.

I stood up too, letting her see me, holding my hands high, easily palming the little .25. We walked toward each other, feet crunching on little stones and litter, maybe ten feet apart, hands still in the air like we were going to slap each other high–fives.

"It'll be okay," she said. "Don't worry. We can still— " Her right hand flashed toward her waistband but mine had less room to travel— I cranked off three rounds into her chest. The cheap little pistol made pop–pop–pop sounds. She staggered, fell to her knees, pulled Morales' gun out and fired— missed— just as I put two more into her. She fell on her face. The pistol dropped from her hand.

I ran over, reached under her arm and rolled her over. Her yellow turtleneck was still clean— I couldn't see where the bullets had gone in. "You're liars," she said, voice drained. "Dirty fucking liars, all of you."

I picked up Morales' revolver, knelt down by Belinda. Her raptor's eyes flamed at me. I pointed Morales' pistol at her forehead, squeezed the trigger. The explosion shut off my hearing. Her forehead disappeared.

I ran then, ran hard. Across the roof, down the stairs, Morales' pistol held ahead of me like a talisman against evil. The apartment door was standing open. I found Morales, still in the same position, knelt next to him.

"She's dead," I told him. "I shot her with your throw–down gun. I put another one into her with this," I said, holding up his pistol so he could see it. "I'm taking off— the cops'll be here in a minute."

"I didn't…call," he said. "I waited…in case you could— "

"Give me five minutes, then," I said. "I'm going back out over the roof."

"You…got it," he grunted— in pain, but he was going to make it, I could see.

"I'm out of here," I told him, standing up.

"Your prints…"he whispered.

"I was covered," I told him, spreading my hands so he could see the gloves.

"Give me my piece," he said, craning his neck so he could look up at me.

I bent down, handed it over. He took it. Carefully wrapped his hand around the butt, slipped his finger into the trigger guard. "Now you're covered," he said, closing his eyes.

I went back to the roof, moved shadowy past Belinda's body Her eyes were open but the light was out. I walked softly, the tiny flash out in front of me, going from roof to roof. I was almost to the end of the block when I heard the sirens.

I stopped in an alley, reached down, pulled the detachable soles and heels off my boots and walked away on the new ones. A few blocks over, I dropped the pull–aways down a gutter sewer.

A few blocks later, I took off the gloves and tossed them into a Dumpster. Once I slipped a token into the slot for the Spring Street subway, I was gone.

Hauser never got his story. By the time he came back from Chicago, it was all over the news. TV, radio, the papers, everything. Hero cop Jorge Morales had cracked a serial murder case….A rogue female detective was the culprit, and he'd taken her out in a vicious gun battle that saw him catch a slug in the chest. He lost a lung, but he was going to make it. Politicians knocked each other over trying for photo ops standing next to his hospital bed. NYPD loved him. If they had questions about the bootleg cellular phone or the extra gun, they kept them to themselves.

I called Helene from a pay phone. "The contract's back on," is all I said.

When Hauser called the prison to set up another interview with Piersall, they told him Piersall wasn't going to be having any visitors. Seems he was out of PC only one day when somebody shanked him— he was DOA by the time they got him to the prison infirmary.

Frankie's got another fight coming up in ninety days— Ristone got him a match with a tomato can. The big buildup had already started. No more real fights for Frankie until he had a string of setup KOs under his belt.

Hauser told me he wasn't done. "This Adelnaws Foundation stinks," he said. "Did you know this guy Capshaw had a conviction for child molesting? Almost forty years ago, in Toronto. And this foundation, it's on the Internet, the server's over in Finland somewhere. I'm gonna take a look."

"Be yourself," I told him.

It was good advice I gave Hauser. But it was a couple more weeks before I took it myself. Vyra called from the Vista. And I climbed in the Plymouth and drove over to see her new shoes.