Sacrifice

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Bob Gottlieb

none better, ever

SACRIFICE

1

When you hunt predators, the best camouflage is weakness.

The E train screeched into Forty-second Street. I got to my feet, pulling slightly on the leather handle of the dog's harness. She nosed her way forward, wary. Citizens parted to let me pass. A black teenager wearing an oversized blue jacket with gold raglan sleeves braced one side of the doors with his arm, making sure they wouldn't close as I passed between them. "You okay, man. Step through."

My dark glasses had polarized lenses. The kid's face was gentle. Sad. Someone in his family was blind. I mumbled thanks, stepped off the subway car onto the platform.

I pushed forward on the harness handle, like shifting into gear. The dog headed for the stairs, waited for a clear path, then took me up along the rail.

On the sidewalk, I turned my face toward the sun, feeling the warmth. "Good girl, Sheba," I told the dog. She didn't react, a professional doing her work. I shifted the handle and she went forward, keeping me in the middle of the sidewalk. Away from doors that might open suddenly, maintaining a safe distance from the curb. I closed my eyes, counting steps.

Sheba halted me at the corner of Forty-fourth and Eighth. She didn't watch the traffic signals any more than the other pedestrians did. It's the same rule for everyone here— cross at your own risk.

I made my way carefully along the sidewalk, counting steps, guided by the dog. Found my spot. Tugged slightly backward on the handle— Sheba sat down. I unwrapped the blanket from around my shoulders, knelt, and spread it on the ground. When I stood up, Sheba lay down on the blanket, made herself comfortable. I opened my coat. Inside was a cardboard sign, held around my neck with a loop of string. White cardboard, hand-lettered in black Magic Marker.

PLEASE HELP

I held a metal cup in my hands. Added a few random coins to sweeten the pot.

Waiting.

2

Humans passed around me, a stream breaking over a rock. They didn't look at my face. If they had, they would have seen a couple of rough patches where the blind man had missed with the electric razor. I was wearing high-top running shoes, loosely laced, denim pants, a gray sweatshirt. All under a khaki raincoat that came past my knees. A well-used black fedora on my head.

The local skells were used to me by now. I made it to the same spot every day. Patiently collected coins from passing citizens, face held straight ahead.

I was a piece of scenery, as anonymous as a taxicab.

My eyes swept the street behind the dark lenses.

Sheba settled into her task. An old wolf-shepherd, mostly gray, soft eyes watchful under white eyebrows. She had a warrior's heart and an undertaker's patience.

Hooker's heels sounded on the sidewalk. A bottle blonde, wearing a cheap red dress, short-tight, black fishnet stockings, a hole the size of a half-dollar on the front of one thigh, pale skin poking through the mesh, low-rent makeup smeared her face. Getting ready to work the lunchtime crowd.

"Your dog's so pretty."

"Thank you."

"Can I pet her?"

"No, she's working."

"Me too… I guess you can't tell."

I drew a sharp breath through my nose, inhaling her cheap perfume as greedily as a cokehead. She laughed, bitter and brittle. "Yeah, I guess maybe you can. I seen you before. Standing here."

"I'm here every day."

"I know. I seen you smoke sometimes…when someone lights one for you. You want one now?"

"I don't have any.

"I have some…" Fumbling in her red vinyl shoulder bag. "You want one now?"

"Please."

She stuck two cigarettes in her mouth, fired them with a cheap butane lighter. Handed one to me.

"It tastes good," I told her, grateful tone in my voice.

"It's menthol."

"The lipstick…that's what tastes good."

"Oh. I guess you don't…I mean…"

"Only my eyes don't work."

She flushed under the heavy makeup. "I didn't mean…"

"It's okay. Everybody's missing something." Her eyes flashed sad. "I had a dog once. Back home."

"And you miss her?"

"Yeah. I miss a lot of things."

"Go home."

"I can't. Not now. You don't understand…Home's far away from here. A million miles away."

"What's your name?"

"Debbie."

"These are bad streets, Debbie. Even if you can't go home, you can go away."

"He'd come after me."

I dragged on my cigarette.

"You know what I'm talking about?" she asked, her voice bitter-quiet.

"Yeah. I know."

"No, you don't. He's watching me. Right now. Across the street. I spend much more time out here talking to you, not making any money, I'm gonna get it from him."

Even with my eyes closed, even with her facing me, I could see the coat-hanger marks across her back. Feel them. I shifted my face slightly, let her hear the core to my voice. "Tell him you made a date with me. For later."

"Sure." Melancholy sarcasm.

"Put your hand in my coat pocket. Your left hand."

"Wow! You got some roll in there."

"It's mostly singles, two twenties on the inside. Take one…Tell him you asked for half up front."

She glanced over her shoulder, hip-shot, leaned close to me. "I tell him that and he'll be waiting for you later…when you go home."

"I know. Tell him the roll was a couple a hundred, it's okay."

"But…"

"Just do it, Debbie. You live with him?"

"Yeah…"

"You can go home tonight. Away from here."

"How…?"

"Take the money, go do your work. Tell him what I told you."

"Mister…"

"Reach in, pull out the roll. Shield it with your body. Take the bill, put the rest back. Pat my dog. Then take off. Tonight, you go home, you understand? Stay out of the bus station— take a train. It'll be okay, Debbie."

She reached in my pocket, knelt down.

"Sheba, it's okay, girl," I said.

The dog made a sweet little noise as Debbie patted her. She straightened up, looked into the lenses of my glasses. "You're sure?"

"Dead sure."

I listened to her heels tap off on the sidewalk. A different rhythm now.

3

It was almost two o'clock before he showed. I recognized him easily by now. In his thirties, close-cropped brown hair, matching mustache, trimmed neat. Wearing a blue windbreaker, jeans, white basketball shoes. Youth worker from one of the Homeless Shelters. Last time he stuffed a dollar bill into my cup. I remember saying, "God bless you."

Watching his smile.

This time he wasn't alone. The kid with him was maybe eight years old. Skinny kid, wearing a brand-new sweatshirt with some cartoon character on the front, munching a hot dog. Having a great time. Probably spent a bunch of quarters in the video arcades first.

They turned into the electronics store a few doors in front of where I was standing— the same place he'd gone into the last time. When he'd come up behind me and put the money in my cup. The same place he always went.

He was inside almost an hour. When he came out, he was alone.

4

He walked past me. Stuffed another dollar in my cup. "May the Lord follow you always," I thanked him. He smiled his smile.

The Prof strolled up to me. A tiny black man, wearing a floor-length raincoat, scuffling along.

"You got him?" I asked.

"Slime can slide, but it can't hide."

"Call McGowan first," I told him, holding his eyes to be sure he got it. McGowan's a cop— he knows what I do, but kids are his beat, not hijackers. "Tell him the freak made a live delivery this time. Tell him to go in the back way— Max is there on the watch."

"I hear what you say— today's the day?"

"The bust will go down soon— they're ready, warrants and all. You find out where the freak goes, where he holes up. They'll take him tomorrow, at work. Then we take our piece out of his apartment. Just the cash— the cops can have the rest."

The Prof took off, disappearing into the crowd. The freak would never see him coming.

5

Time to go. I gently pulled on the harness and Sheba came to her feet. I folded the blanket, wrapped it around my neck, and let the dog pull me forward. I turned the corner, headed down the alley where Max would be waiting.

I spotted Debbie's owner lounging against the alley wall. Tall, slim brownskin man wearing a long black leather coat and a Zorro hat.

Stocky white kid next to him, heavily muscled in a red tank top. A pimp: he needed reinforcements to mug a blind man.

I plodded on ahead, oblivious to them, closing the gap.

The pimp pushed himself languidly off the wall to face me. The muscleman loomed up on the side.

"Hold up, man."

I stopped, pulling on the harness, squeezing the button on the handle that unsnapped the whole apparatus from the dog.

"Wha…?" Fear in my voice.

"Give up the money, man. No point in getting yourself all fucked up, right?"

"I don't have any money," I whined.

I saw the slap coming. Didn't move. Let it rock me to my knees, pulling the harness off as I fell.

"Sheba! Hit him!" I yelled, and the dog sprang forward, burying her wolf's teeth deep into the pimp's thigh. He shrieked something in a high octave just as the muscleman took a step toward me. I heard a crack and the muscleman was down, his head lolling at a chiropractic angle.

Max the Silent stepped into view, his Mongol face expressionless, nostrils flared, eyes on the target. Hands at his side: one fisted to smash, the other knife-edged to chop.

"Sheba! Out!"

The dog backed off, cheated, but acting like a pro. The pimp was holding his thigh, moaning a plea to someone he didn't know.

I squatted next him, patted him down. Found the little two-shot derringer in his belt, popped it open. Loaded. No point warning this dirtbag— he wouldn't be a good listener. I held my hand parallel to the ground, made a flicking motion like I was brushing crumbs off a table. I heard a pop, like cloth snapped open in a gust of wind. The pimp slammed into the wall, eyes glazed. Blood bubbled on his lips. I stuck the derringer back into his belt— it was all the ID he'd need at the hospital.

He wouldn't come home tonight. The rest was up to Debbie.

A putty-colored sedan lumbered into the alley at the far end, bouncing on a bad set of shocks. The cops. Max merged with the shadows. I put on my dark glasses, snapped Sheba's harness, and made my slow way out to the street.

6

The E train let me out at Chambers Street, the downtown end of the line. I found my Plymouth parked at the curb near the World Trade Center. Unlocked the back door, unsnapped Sheba's harness. She leaped lightly to the seat.

I took off the dark glasses and climbed behind the wheel. None of the watching citizens blinked at the miraculous transformation.

7

I turned the Plymouth toward the West Side Highway, slipped through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, tossed a token in the Exact Change lane, and cruised along the Belt Parkway just ahead of the rush-hour traffic.

Taking Sheba home the back way.

I pulled over to a quiet spot the other side of the Brooklyn Aquarium. Exchanged the running shoes for a pair of boots, the sweatshirt for a turtleneck jersey, the raincoat for a leather jacket. Threw the blind man's props into the trunk.

The Plymouth purred past JFK Airport, its overtorqued engine muted, well within itself. Sheba slept peacefully on the back seat, profoundly uninterested in where we were going. Just doing her job.

Like me.

I turned off the Van Wyck Expressway onto Queens Boulevard. A short hop to the City-Wide Special Victims Bureau, sitting in the shadow of the House of Detention. I found a parking place, snapped Sheba's harness back on.

The entrance to the Bureau is blocked by a steel gate, guard's desk to one side, two-passenger elevator to the left of a narrow corridor. An Oriental woman was at the desk. Pretty face, calmly suspicious eyes.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Ms. Wolfe."

She handed me a sign-in sheet on a clipboard with a cheap ballpoint pen attached by a string, but her eyes never left my face. "Your name?" she asked. The way cops ask.

Sheba jumped up so her front paws were resting on the desk, her ears up and alert.

"Hi, Sheba!" the Oriental woman said. "I know I've got a treat for you around here someplace. Let me see…" She rummaged in her desk drawer, came out with a dog biscuit in her left hand. Tossed it at Sheba while she showed me the pistol in her right.

"Where did you get our dog?" she asked, still calm, much colder.

I moved my hands away from my body. "Ask Wolfe," I told her.

She must have kicked some button under the desk. Wolfe came around the corner, a cigarette in one hand, a sheaf of papers in the other.

"What is it, Fan?" She spotted me. "Oh, here you are. Right on time."

Sheba bounded over to her. Wolfe reached down, scratched behind the dog's ears. "Sheba, playroom! Go to the playroom." The dog trotted off.

"He's okay, Fan." Wolfe smiled. The Oriental woman inclined her head about an inch, put the gun away.

I followed Wolfe back into her office. It looked like it always does: paper all over the place, walls covered with charts and graphs, a computer terminal blinking in one corner. And a white orchid floating in a brandy snifter.

"Where's the beast?" I asked, looking into the corners.

"Bruiser? He's somewhere with Bruno. Everything work out?"

I sat down across from her, lit a smoke of my own. "He brought a kid with him this time. Left him there. When I took off, McGowan's boys were hitting the back door."

She nodded, picked up a phone, pushed a button. A doll-faced young redhead with a pugnacious jaw walked in fast, her spike heels tapping on the hard floor.

"The Kent case, you got the warrants ready?" Wolfe asked her.

"All set," the redhead replied, confident.

"He delivered a kid this afternoon."

"We'll pull him in tonight."

I shook my head slightly. Wolfe caught it, looked up at the redhead. "The warrants…you have tap and search?"

"Mail cover too," the redhead said. "The Task Force is on it."

She meant the FBI Pedophile Task Force. They're right down the road from City-Wide. Must be the freak was networked way past the storefront in Times Square— the one thing baby-rapers have in common is enough to link them all over the damn earth.

"Take him tomorrow," Wolfe said, watching my face. I nodded agreement. "At work," she continued. "But start the tap tonight. If he gets a call from the Times Square people, we'll have them hooked in. Execute the search tomorrow night."

"What if he runs tonight?"

"Then grab him. But don't do it unless there's hard evidence that he's fleeing the jurisdiction, you understand?"

"Sure."

The redhead walked out fast, covering ground, her pleated skirt flying around her knees.

Wolfe dragged on her cigarette. "That's the best I can do," she said.

"It's okay. Good enough. I don't think they'll call him…degenerates don't work like that. No loyalty."

"A lower class of criminal." She smiled. A lovely, elegant face, framed by glossy dark hair shot through with two wings of white.

Wolfe knew what I was. What I did.

"Sheba was good?" she asked.

"Perfect."

"She's perfect here too. Calms the kids down like no psychiatrist ever could."

"Where'd you get her?"

"You know what happens to Seeing Eye dogs? After they work about ten years, they retire them." A soft sneer in her voice. "So their owner won't have to deal with an older dog. You know, they slow up, they get sick easily…like that."

"Where do they go?"

"Into cages. That's where I found Sheba. Can you imagine what it must be like…to work all your life, be so loyal and true…and end up in a cage?"

"Just the last part."

She nodded.

A tall, slender woman came in, sat on the edge of Wolfe's desk, crossed her long legs. An ankle bracelet gleamed. She had a Cleopatra face, long, dark nails. Kept her eyes on me as she talked to Wolfe over her shoulder. "We can't use the shield on Mary Beth. The judge ruled she wasn't a vulnerable witness."

"What does Lily say?" Lily runs SAFE, a treatment center for abused kids, works as a consultant to Wolfe's crew. I've known her forever.

"It'll be close," the tall woman said. "You'll take a look?"

"Yeah." She turned to me. "Want to see?"

"Okay," I told Wolfe. Her beautiful pal acted like I was furniture.

We walked down the hall to the playroom, stood in the doorway. Lily was talking to a little girl. The child had pale white skin, lank blonde hair, thick glasses. She was listening intently to Lily when she looked up, spotted me. Her expression didn't change.

Sheba was standing next to the little girl. I moved a bit too close and she growled, taking a step forward. Our relationship was over.

An angry-looking man in a double-breasted silk suit shouldered his way past me into the room. He had longish dark hair, a thick neck, slight Mediterranean cast to his features.

"You heard?" he asked Wolfe.

"I heard. It's your case?"

"No, it's not my goddamned case. But I'm gonna be there. He wants to watch Mary Beth, okay, we'll see how he likes me watching him."

"Rocco…" A warning tone in her voice.

"I know, I know. But…"

Wolfe turned to Lily. "How're we doing?"

"We're doing just fine. Aren't we, Mary Beth?"

The little girl's "yes" was a whisper.

I knew what was going on. The judge had ruled the little girl would have to face the perpetrator in court, not testify over closed-circuit TV like they'd wanted. And she was scared. He'd watch her, his eyes warning her, reminding her. Maybe he'd lick his lips, make a little gesture that only she knew. Maybe she'd go mute from terror. Wouldn't act like a kid on TV. A jury of citizen-hypocrites would talk about how normal the defendant looked. And another child molester would be acquitted. Her little face turned slowly, watching everyone in the room.

I stepped back against the wall, feeling her terror radiate— I've been tuned to that station all my life.

I touched Wolfe's hand. Lightly. "Could I try something?" I asked.

"What?"

"She doesn't want to see him, right?"

Wolfe nodded. We all knew who "him" was. There's always a "him" in Mary Beth's kind of nightmares. Or a "her." Sometimes "them." Never a stranger.

Rocco pushed in between us, his nose inches from my face, hoping I'd take offense. "Who're you?"

"This is a private investigator, Rocco," Wolfe told him. "He's worked with me before."

"Private investigators work for whoever pays them."

"Rocco, come over here a minute." Lily's voice.

Lily took him over into a corner. The little girl patted Sheba, watching.

The tall woman stepped next to me, pinning me between her and Wolfe. Listening.

"It doesn't matter what he can see, right?" I asked. "It's what she can see.

"Right."

"What's the distance from the witness chair to the defense table?"

"I'm not sure," Wolfe said, looking past me to the tall woman. "You know, Lola?"

"I'll find out," she said, making some gesture at Rocco. "Wait in my office," Wolfe told me.

8

A chesty thug stepped across Wolfe's threshold. He looked half my height and twice my width, straps from a shoulder holster over his arms. And an annoyed-looking Rottweiler on a heavy chain in his hand.

"I remember you," he said. Some office Wolfe had: the women looked like fashion models, the men looked like a continuing criminal enterprise.

The Rottweiler snarled his acknowledgment— he remembered me too.

"I'm waiting for Wolfe."

"She let you in?"

"Yeah."

"Bruiser, stay!" he snapped at the dog, leaving me alone.

The Rottweiler watched me, praying I'd try to leave.

9

I was on my third smoke when Wolfe and Lola came back. Wolfe smacked the Rottweiler on top of his broad head. "Bruiser, place!"

The thickly muscled beast walked grudgingly over to a far corner, lay down on a slab of carpet. Pinned me with his eyes.

"He gets along with Sheba?" I asked her.

"Not really. They don't mix much. She has her space, Bruiser has his. Sheba, she's the whole Bureau's dog. Even sleeps here. But Bruiser's mine. Aren't you, Bruisey?"

The Rottweiler made a noise between a yawn and a growl.

"The distance between the witness chair and the defense table is about thirty feet, depending on the line of sight," she said. "Why'd you want to know?"

"I got an idea…something that might work."

Wolfe flashed her trademark smile— the one that made defense attorneys think about switching to real estate work. "And all you need is the defendant's address, right?"

"You misjudge me," I said, trying for an injured tone. "It's nothing like that."

"What do you need?"

"How about a look at the courtroom?"

Wolfe looked across her desk. Lola nodded. "It's after hours," she said.

10

We moved through the marble corridors in a loose diamond-shaped cluster: the thug taking the point, holding Bruiser on his leash. Me to the right, Lily beside me. Wolfe and Lola to the left, Rocco bringing up the rear.

In the center of the diamond, Mary Beth.

Courtroom K-2 was one floor up from the DA's basement. Empty.

Lily escorted Mary Beth to the witness chair. Lola took her place at the prosecutor's table. I sat in the defendant's spot, Rocco next to me. Wolfe stood by the jury box, one hand on the railing. The thug stayed by the door with Bruiser.

"It's your show," Wolfe said.

I took a breath, pulling up the calm, centering…so my voice would carry without cutting.

"Hi, Mary Beth," I called out. "Can you hear me?"

She nodded her head. If she said anything, I couldn't catch it.

"Let's play a game, okay?"

Nothing.

"Okay, Mary Beth? Come on, it'll be fun."

Lily leaned over and whispered something to her. The little girl giggled.

Lily nodded at me. I took a roll of bills out of my pocket, handed some singles to Rocco. He took them without a word, going along.

"Now, Mary Beth, my friend Rocco is going to hold something up. If you can guess what it is, you can have it, okay?"

"Okay." Soft, but audible.

"Don't hold up the whole fucking roll," I whispered to him. "One at a time."

He held up a dollar bill.

Mary Beth said something I couldn't hear.

"What was that, baby?" I called out to her.

"Money."

"That's right. You win."

"And you lose," Rocco said, jumping to his feet, walking over to the girl, handing her the cash. Making a production out of it, like a game-show host. Faint trace of a smile on the child's face.

"This is too easy, huh? Okay, Rocco, you stay there. Let's try something harder. Mary Beth, tell me how many fingers I'm holding up and you win again, okay?"

She nodded.

I held up three fingers.

"Three." A little girl's voice, faint.

Rocco bowed deeply, presented her with another dollar.

I tried again.

"One." Her voice stronger now, hint of a giggle underneath.

"Damn! You're good at this, Mary Beth. One more time, okay?"

"Okay." This time, I didn't have to strain to hear her answer. None of us did.

I tried two fingers. She was right on the money. Rocco made the delivery, happy to be spending my cash.

I took a breath. "Mary Beth, take off your glasses, okay? Let's try it that way.

She whispered something to Lily. I saw a grin spill across Wolfe's face and instantly disappear. The glasses came off.

I held up two fingers again.

"I can't see," the child said, her voice clear and firm.

"Try again," I said, holding my hand high above my head.

"I can't see anything."

Wolfe stepped away from the jury box. Walked around until she stood behind me. "Can you see me, honey?" she called.

"No. It's all a blur."

"Then you won't be able to see him either, Mary Beth. You won't have to see him, baby!"

The little girl's smile lit up the room.

11

Back in Wolfe's office, waiting for her to come back. Rocco waited with me, suspiciously patient.

"That was a slick trick, man," he finally said. "Where'd you learn stuff like that?"

"From them."

"Who?"

"The freaks. Child molesters, rapists, pain players…like that."

"You studied them."

"Up close," I said, giving him my eyes.

Wolfe walked in with Lola, another man next to her. Slim, handsome Spanish guy. Wolfe signaled to Rocco to take off. He acted like he didn't see the gesture— kept his eyes on me. "What's your name, man?"

"Juan Rodriguez."

The Spanish guy laughed. "So where's your cross, homeboy?" he asked me.

I held my hands out, showing him the backs were clean, no tattoos.

Rocco looked over at the Spanish guy. "What is this?"

"This cholo is fucking with us, bro'. He was a Mexican, he'd be a pachuco."

Wolfe sat down behind her desk, in command. Lit a cigarette, motioning for everyone to sit down.

"These are my people," she said to me. "I trust them, you understand?"

I nodded, waiting.

"I'm not going to be here forever. Things change, I want them to stay the same, you following me?"

I nodded again. No DA's office is free of politics. Wolfe had made a career of mashing rapists and molesters but she wasn't connected. So she wasn't protected. If she had to go someday, her crew would carry it on. The boss couldn't fire the whole lot of them.

"In or out?" she asked me.

"Do it," I told her.

She dragged on her cigarette. "Mr. Burke," she said, tilting her head in my direction, then toward each member of her crew, "this is Lola, my deputy [Cleopatra with the ankle bracelet], Amanda [the redhead], and Floyd [the Spanish guy]. Rocco's just come with us, a transfer from the Rackets Bureau. You've already met Bruno— he'll be back soon. The Spanish guy nodded in my direction— the others just waited.

The Rottweiler made a noise.

"And Bruiser." She laughed. Nobody else did.

"Mr. Burke has worked with this office in the past. Before some of you came." Looking at Rocco.

He snapped at the bait. "When?"

"Bonnie Browne," Wolfe answered, combing back her thick mane of dark hair with one hand, posture challenging.

I'd been looking for a photograph then. A picture of a little kid. He wanted his soul back. The photo was in a luxurious house in Wolfe's territory, the headquarters of a kiddie-porn ring run by a husband-and-wife team. Wolfe wanted the team— I wanted the picture. Her surveillance crew was on the job the night I went inside. When I left, there was a fire. They found the husband at the bottom of the stairs, his neck broken. The wife was lying on her bed upstairs, still dazed from the ether I'd rubbed into her evil face. The old bitch lived, and she'd ratted out a dozen others. A big case.

Rocco nodded his head. "That was you?" he asked me.

"Mr. Burke assisted in the investigation," Wolfe said, cutting him off. "He has a…limited relationship with this office. We understand each other."

Rocco wouldn't let it go. "You're a PI?"

"I'm just a working man. Once in a while, like Ms. Wolfe said, our paths cross. That's all there is."

Floyd's eyes found me through the cigarette smoke. "Burke. I heard about you."

"Did you?"

A faint smile played across his mouth. He bowed his head slightly in my direction.

I got up to go. "I'll fill them in," Wolfe said.

12

Balanced. Centered, back to myself. Back from the sweet illusion of family I left in Indiana. No more part of Virgil's family than I was blind.

Illusions can make you jump to conclusions. Like off a bridge.

I have no home. I pitch my tent on rocky ground, a nomad, never planting a crop. I live by poaching. Stinging, scamming, stealing. Always ready to move along when the herd thins out.

I walk the line, but I draw my own. Hit and run. I've been a ground-feeder ever since I got out of prison the last time. A small-stakes gambler in crooked games.

No more hijacking, no more gunfighting. The scores are richer in the penthouse, but it's safer in the basement.

That's what I want— to be safe. When I was younger, I waded in, throwing hooks with both hands, looking for that one shot that would take out the other guy. TKO in the first round. I thought that would give me strength, then. Keep me safe.

But it was me who kept going down. No more. Now all I want is to go the distance, be standing at the end.

Standing up.

13

I nosed the Plymouth into the one-stall garage at the corner of the old factory. The landlord converted it to living lofts years ago. Made himself a nice bundle from sensitive artists with rich parents. I live on the top floor. You look at the building plans, all you'll see is storage space up there. The landlord owed me for something I didn't do— my office is the price.

He could always start charging rent— make me homeless. I could always make a phone call, whisper an address— and the people his coke-loving son sold to the federales would make the little rat room temperature.

Pansy wasn't at her post when I let myself in the door. The beast was lazing on the couch, one massive paw draped over the edge, 140 pounds of brick-brained muscle, her light gray eyes flickering with just a trace of contempt.

"You glad to see me, girl?" I asked the Neapolitan mastiff.

She made a sniffing noise, like she smelled something bad on me. If I didn't know better, I would have thought the bitch copped an attitude because I'd worked with another woman.

"You want to go out?" I asked her, opening the back door to the office. Outside, a small iron fire escape, rusty and gnarled with age and neglect. From there, a shaky set of stairs to the roof. She ambled over and climbed up to her yard, ignoring me.

When she came back inside, I reached in my jacket pocket. Took out four orders of shish kebob in pita bread, individually wrapped in foil. They sell them on the street here. Along with watches, jeans, radios, necklaces, logo'd sweatshirts, street maps, handguns, videotapes, books, hot dogs, cocaine, flesh, and artwork. Pansy immediately whipped into a sitting position, slobber erupting from both sides of her gaping maw, watching me toss away the foil, squeeze the whole thing into a giant smelly, greasy ball.

"Still mad at me?" I asked her, holding the prize right in front of her snout.

She didn't move, rigid as a fundamentalist.

"Speak!" I told her, tossing it in her direction. Her first snap sent pieces flying all over the room. Her tail wagged madly as she chased down and devoured every last scrap.

I sat at the desk and watched her. When she was finished, she came over to me, put her bowling-ball-sized head in my lap, making gentle noises as I scratched behind her ears, blissed out.

They're all alike.

Sure.

14

I leafed through my mail. It's not delivered here— I keep PO boxes all over the city, open new ones all the time. I'd never go back to the latest group once this collection of scores was done.

A dozen or so responses to my latest ad in the freak sheets. Darla's only ten years old, but she's real pretty. She loves to have her picture taken, and her daddy's real good at it. You tell Daddy how you want to see Darla posed, and he'll send along some really delicious Polaroids. Five hundred bucks gets you a set of four— custom work is expensive. No checks.

The first loving correspondent wanted Darla in pink ribbons— and nothing else. Another wanted to see Darla disciplined. I didn't read the rest, just carefully separated the money orders, put them in a neat stack to one side.

I mail the original letters to a Customs agent I know in Chicago.

He doesn't know me— I'm his mystery pal. A concerned citizen. The Customs people mail some porno they have lying around to the letter-writers. Then they bust them for possession. I keep the money orders for my trouble. Like a bounty.

Another batch of letters responding to my mercenary recruitment service.

More mail: applicants for membership in the Warriors of the White Night. One human handwrote a long letter along with his entry form. Told the Central Committee how eager he was to link up with real urban guerrillas who knew how to deal with the Nigger Menace. He sent cash— didn't want to wait the customary four weeks for processing.

There's a check-cashing joint in the Bronx that converts the money orders for me. Somebody comes around, they'll describe me to perfection. Black, about six foot four, 230 pounds, shaved head, razor scar down one cheek. Driving a gold Cadillac with Florida plates.

15

Not all my mail comes to PO boxes. My personal drop is over in Jersey. One of Mama's drivers picks it up for me every couple of weeks, brings it to her restaurant. Max takes it from there, stores it at his temple until I come around. It takes longer, but it's safer.

That was the only address Flood had. For years after she left, I waited for a letter. I don't do that anymore.

Michelle's last letter was still on the desk. Shell-pink stationery, a fragrance to the ink.

It's not going to happen here, baby. You're the only one I can tell this to. I'll deal with Terry and the Mole when I make up my mind. Sorry if this sounds incoherent but it looks like your baby sister stayed too long at the fair, honey. I had the money. I still have it— they won't take it. All those years of scheming, risking…

I got myself a lovely apartment, right near the hospital complex. At least it's lovely now, once I got through with it. The psychological screening wasn't much of anything. I mean, I didn't tell one single lie until it got to the part about how I've been living these past years, do I have significant family support for sex reassignment surgery?— you know how they do.

I've been living as a woman. That's what they say they wanted, the hypocrites! But I've been a hustler all my life, ever since I escaped. And I didn't always work dry. I told a psychiatrist about my biological family once. I won't ever do that again.

Anyway, it all looked good. What happened is I failed the medical. I've been on the hormones too long, and those bootleggers I dealt with, they must have mixed and matched too many times. I remember how much it hurt when I started, how I got cramps I wouldn't wish on any of my sisters.

The doctor I asked back then, he said it was purely psychological, the pain— all in my head. Of course, he was a male.

Anyway, estrogens can contribute to clotting, they said, and I'd have to come off them before surgery. But if I stop now, stop the hormones, they said I could crash. I've been on them too long, with too heavy doses.

And when they asked me who did my breasts, I wouldn't tell them. The silicon's still holding up…I'm as beautiful as ever. But I was crazy once. Before you knew me. When I was so young and headstrong. I played around with some other hormones then. I wanted these poor boobs of mine to lactate, and I had to have more surgery.

Bottom line, baby: they won't do it! Too high a risk, they said. I'm all a mess inside.

God, like I needed some fool in a white coat to tell me that.

So here's my choices. I can come back, like I am. Keep taking the hormones. Even get psychotherapy if I want it. Above the table. That's one thing they gave me, I'm official now, the diagnosis is on paper. Pre-op transsexual.

But I learned some things from this. And there's one thing I know, baby, I can never go to jail. Not ever. I'd die first. So how do I live?

I'm trapped, and they won't fix me here. I can go overseas.

One of my shadow-sisters gave me a name of a hospital in Brussels, and I know it can get done in Morocco too. Casablanca. Only there's no Bogart for me.

I went through the hormones, the electrolysis, everything. All I wanted from these people was the final chop and some reconstruction. I don't need their simpleminded therapy. In my heart and my soul, I'm a woman. Your sister. Terry's mother.

I need some time. To see what's important to me. I'll let you know.

Watch out over my boy.

I love you.

16

The next morning, I took a short walk. Brought back the newspapers and a bag full of bakery for Pansy. Took my time, stretched things out. I read the paper the way I used to in prison, sucking every ounce of juice from the pages. It didn't bother Pansy— she has a dog's sense of time. Only two limits for her: never and forever.

It was almost ten by the time I entered the garage from the back stairs. A piece of paper torn from a yellow legal pad floated under the windshield wiper. Two broad slashes with a heavy black felt-tip pen, running parallel to a small circle at their base. The number 7 to one side.

Max. Telling me I should come see him right away. Telling me where. Not a sign of forced entrance to the garage. I'd offered him a key once— he thought that was funny. Max the Silent doesn't speak. Doesn't make any noise at all.

I found a parking place in Chinatown, just off the Bowery. Made my way to one of the movie houses standing under the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge. Narrow alley along the side. Back door, dull green paint streaked with rust. I turned the knob, not surprised to find it unlocked. Metal stairs to my left, winding up in a Z pattern. I put a hand on the bannister and two Orientals materialized. They didn't say anything. They worked it together: one watched my hands, the other my eyes.

"Max?" I offered.

They were as silent as he is.

"Burke," I said, pointing at myself.

One moved to me, ran his hands over my body, a light, spider's touch. He wasn't looking for a knife…anything less than a machine gun wouldn't do much good where I was going.

They stepped aside. I climbed to the landing, found another door, entered. Followed more stairs, this time up.

Another door. I opened it to a long, narrow room with a high ceiling, lit by suspended fluorescent fixtures. I was facing a row of windows, pebble-glassed, caked with a hundred years' worth of yellowing cigarette smoke. The floor was broken into sections with neatly painted areas: a square, a rectangle, a circle. One wall was lined with weapons: Japanese katanas, Thai fighting sticks, Korean numchuks, throwing stars, kongos. It wasn't for show— in this joint, you checked your carry-weapons at the door. The other wall was mostly Orientals with a light sprinkling of roundeyes, black, brown, and white. Men and women, young and old. No mirrors, no mats, no stretching bars. A combat dojo— bring your own style.

Max moved in next to me, his hand on my forearm. I followed his lead to an empty space along the wall. A short, fat man stood in the center of the rectangle, bent at the waist, the back of his right hand at his hip, the other extended, wrist limp, fingers softly playing as if in response to air currents, almost a parody of effeminacy. He looked like a soft dumpling— nobody'd step aside for him on the street.

A slightly built young man stepped onto the floor. Bowed to the fat man. Moved in small, delicate circles, his body folding into a cat stance, front leg slightly off the floor, pawing. Testing the water.

The fat man stood rooted, only his extended fingers in motion, as though connected to the younger man by invisible wires. All balance centered deep within his abdomen, keeping his point.

The young man faked a sweep with his leading foot, flashed it to a plant, firing off a back kick with the other leg. The fat man made a whisking motion and the kick went off the mark— a motion-block too fast for me to see.

The fat man was back inside himself before his opponent recovered. He waited— the sapling facing the wind.

The young man tried again…drew blanks. He threw kicks from every angle, went airborne once…but the fat man deflected every attack with the extended hand, never moving from his spot.

The younger man bowed. Stepped off the floor.

An ancient man in a blue embroidered robe stepped to the border of the rectangle. Barked out something in a language I'd never heard before. I didn't need a translator: "Who's next?"

I glanced at Max. He put three fingers against my forearm. The young man hadn't been the first to try and penetrate the fat man's crane-style defense.

I held my left hand at an angle, parallel to my shoulders, in the middle of my chest. Moved my right hand into a fist, swept the left hand aside, smacked the fist against my chest off the carom. Opened my hands in a "why not?" gesture.

The warrior's mouth twitched a fraction, quick flash of teeth behind the thin lips. Pointed toward the floor.

A behemoth stepped into the rectangle, his glossy black hair woven into the elaborate set of the sumo wrestler. Looked like an old oak tree, sawed off halfway up. He bowed to the fat man, dwarfing his opponent. The knife hadn't worked— they were going to the club.

The sumo crouched, snorted a deep breath through his nose, trumpeted his battle cry, and charged. The fat man flicked his extended wrist, spun in place with the rush, and lashed the back of the sumo's head with an elbow as he went past, driving him into the far wall.

The wall survived the impact.

The sumo rolled his shoulders, waiting for the battle music in his head to reach crescendo. His eyes turned inward and he charged again. The fat man's left hand fluttered, a butterfly against an onrushing truck, extended fingers darting at the sumo's eyes. The sumo's fists shot up toward the fat man's face just as the fat man's right hand came off his hip, a jet stream striking the sumo's sternum. The bigger man stopped like he'd hit the wall again. The fat man fired two side kicks into the same spot, snapped back into the circle stance before the sumo could react.

The sumo bowed to the fat man. All around the room, everyone was doing the same.

A dozen languages bubbled in a rich broth. I couldn't understand any of them. Max couldn't hear them. But we both got the message. The ancient man stepped forward again. Said something, pointing to Max.

The Mongolian folded his arms, eyes sweeping the room, measuring. He nodded his head a bare fraction. It was enough. The room went quiet as Max walked into the rectangle.

He was wearing loose, flowing dark cotton pants and a black T-shirt. He bent at the waist, pulled off the thin-soled shoes he always wore, no socks. Bowed to the fat man.

Max stood rigid as steel, vectoring in. The fat man was a master of some form of aikido. He would not attack. Balanced in harmony, he would only complete the circle.

Max bowed again. Extended his own hand, fingertips out. Ki to Ki.

The hair on my forearms stood straight up from the fallout.

Max slid forward into a slight open crouch, rolling his head on the column of his neck. The fat man waggled his fingers, still into his stance, waiting. Max stepped forward as if walking on rice paper, working his way into the zone. He moved to his left, testing. The fat man's hips were ball bearings— he tracked Max, locked on to the target.

In the space between two heartbeats, Max dove at the fat man's feet, twisting into a perfect forward roll even as the fat man flowed backward— too late. Max was on his back, both feet piston-driving in a bracket at the fat man's body. One missed, the other was a direct hit to the belly. The fat man staggered as Max rolled to his feet, the Mongolian's right fist hooking inside the fat man's extended hand, driving through, spinning, his back against the fat man's chest as he turned, launching the left, chopping down into the exposed neck.

It was over. The fat man held his hand against the strike-point, rubbing the feeling back into his neck. It wasn't broken— Max had pulled the shot.

They bowed to each other. Barks of approval from the crowd. Max pointed to the fat man. Held up his hand, fingers splayed. Touched his thumb, pointed to the fat man. Then his index finger. Same thing. He did each finger in turn, until he came to the little finger. Pointed at himself. Held his chest, panted heavily. Pointed at himself again— held up the thumb. Pointed at the fat man. Held his opponent's hand in the air. Telling the crowd that the fat man had fought four men before Max had his chance— if Max had gone first, the fat man would have won.

I was proud of the lie— so proud to be his brother.

17

Nobody clapped Max on the back on the way out of the dojo. It wasn't that kind of joint.

The warrior touched the face of my wristwatch, moved his hand in a "come on" gesture. Wherever we were going, we were running close.

In the car, Max made the sign for SAFE. Lily's joint on the edge of the Village.

I made a "what's going on?" sign. He held up one finger. Patience.

We motored through Chatham Square. A flock of gray pigeons clustered around the monument set in a tiny triangle of concrete at the intersection of East Broadway and the Bowery. A white pigeon landed in their midst, bulling his way through to the best scavenging. A hard bird, honed by the stress of survival in a world where his color marked him.

18

I stashed the Plymouth in back of Lily's place, followed Max inside. Her office is at the far end of the joint. The door was open. Lily was at her desk, her Madonna's face framed by the long black hair. Another woman was with her, a young woman with dirty-blonde hair, big eyes, a sarcastic mouth. Sitting straight in her chair with an athlete's posture. Maybe eight months pregnant. They were deep in conversation. Max clapped his hands— they looked up.

Max bowed to the women, they returned his greeting. He held up my wrist so they could see the watch.

"Thank you, Max," Lily said. "Right on time."

"What is this?" I asked Lily.

She ignored my question. "You know Storm, right, Burke?"

"Sure." Storm was the head of the Rape Crisis Unit at the downtown hospital. Another of the warrior women who made up Lily's tribe. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They're all some kind of sweet, and they can all draw blood.

"You really want to know?" Lily asked Storm. "You're absolutely sure? Burke's never wrong…about this."

Storm nodded.

"Show him," Lily said. Storm extended her hand, palm up.

I sat on the desk, held her palm in my hands. "This is the hand you write with?" I asked her.

"Yes."

I looked closely. Saw the clear triangles emerging from the lines. Like the gypsy woman told me a long time ago. Intersecting triangles for female, open spikes for male.

"It'll be a girl," I told her.

"Good!" Storm said. Then: "Thank you. I didn't want the amnio, but Lily just had to know. It was making her crazy."

I lit a cigarette. Lily made a face. Storm smiled. She smokes too. One cigarette a day, usually right after supper. No more, no less.

"What's the rest of it?" I asked Lily.

"How do you know there's more? Don't you think Storm's question was important?"

"Storm doesn't even think it's important," I said. Watching her eyes, knowing I was telling the truth. "And Max wouldn't have a tight time limit for what I just did."

"I'll show you," Lily said.

19

The small playroom has a window of one-way glass— it's a mirror on the inside. I looked through it and saw Immaculata, her long hair done up in a severe bun, wearing a bright orange smock. Max's woman, part Vietnamese, part she'll-never-know. I was there when they met. In the fallout from combat. A chubby baby crawled on the carpet in one corner. Flower, their little girl. Named for another little girl. One who hadn't survived. A tribute to Flood, the little blonde karateka who fought to avenge the baby's death. And left when her work was done.

Left me.

Half a dozen kids in the playroom. Running, jumping, scrawling with crayons on a giant piece of white poster board.

"That's him," Lily said at my side. "He's talking to Mac now. Luke, his name is."

The boy looked about eight. Light brown hair, thin face, dark eyes. He was holding a pocket calculator in one hand, pointing at the display window, like he was explaining something.

I felt Storm slide in next to me on my other side. "The police found him. In a room with his baby brother. Two years old. The baby had been hacked to death with a butcher knife. There was blood all over Luke, but he hadn't been touched, just a few surface scratches."

"His parents?"

"They weren't home. Left him in charge of his brother. Said they were only gone a few minutes."

"Anyone popped for it?"

"No. No arrests. No suspects, even."

"We don't treat only direct child abuse victims here," Lily put in, anger edging her voice, like I was a politician questioning her program. "Children who've witnessed horrible violence to a loved one…a rape, a murder…they're as traumatized by it as if it happened to them. That's why Luke's here."

"He lives at home?"

Storm answered me. "No. His parents were convicted of inadequate guardianship. Turns out they were gone almost two days, not a few minutes like they'd said. And they were very secretive, hostile. Wolfe's unit found out the dead baby wasn't really theirs. Not legally theirs. One of those private placement adoptions, but it never went to a court. The lawyer who handled it got indicted for baby-selling. Luke's been in foster care for about two months."

"And you still don't know who killed the baby?"

"Wolfe says she knows." Something in Lily's voice.

"So what's for me?"

"Last week, we had a TV crew here. They were filming a documentary about child abuse. We gave them permission, under strict conditions. Told them which rooms they could work in, which rooms to stay out of. One of them, this real smart young man, some producer-something-or-other, he took a cameraman into the back, where Luke was playing. When Luke saw the camera, he went catatonic. Froze. The paramedics stuck a hypo in his arm and he didn't even flinch."

"What happened?"

"He came out of it. Maybe an hour later. When I told him he'd been in a trance, he got very angry. Denied the whole thing. Even told us what he'd been doing during that time. Like it never happened."

I watched the kid, adding it up.

"Burke, you know what it means, don't you?" Lily asked.

I ignored her question. "Can I talk to him?"

"Let's try," she said, opening the door to the playroom.

20

They worked it like a drill team. Lily flashed something to Immaculata, who immediately drew Luke close to her as Storm muscled the other kids out of the room.

"Hi, Mac," I said. "Who's your pal?"

"This is Luke," she said gravely, one hand on his shoulder, the long, lacquered nails spilling against his chest. Talons, guarding.

The kid's eyes were pearly darkness. "What's your name?" he asked me, trembly thread in his voice.

"Burke."

"How do you spell that?"

I told him.

The kid's eyes went thoughtful, rolled up into his head, snapped right back. "Our names are linked," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"They have the same letters. U. K. E. In both our names. Maybe they have the same root. Mine is from the Bible. Is there a Burke in the Bible?"

"Not by that name."

"Are you Immaculata's friend?"

"She is my brother's wife."

"Max is your brother?"

"Yes."

"It's true," Mac assured him.

"Immaculata is my friend."

"I know. That means you're my friend too."

His eyes flickered again, straightened. "Do you know any monsters?" I hunkered down next to him, getting my eyes on the same level.

"Yeah, I know some."

"Do you fight them?"

"I have."

"Do you win?"

"Sometimes."

"Are you scared…when you fight them?"

I held his eyes, willing them to stay on mine. "Yes," I told him. "Yes, I'm scared."

He held out his hand to me, a soft child's hand. "Don't be scared. If you're my friend, you don't have to be scared."

"I'm not scared now."

His eyes rolled again. Came back slower this time. "Burke?" he asked. Like he was seeing me for the first time, waking up from a dream.

"Yeah?"

"If we put our names together, you and me, do you know what they would be?"

"No. What?"

"Burke and Luke. Together it would be Lurk. What do you think?"

"I think you're right." Watching his eyes, holding them steady. Tiny lights dancing in them now— candlepoints in the night.

I got to my feet.

"Are you coming back?" he asked.

"Count on it," I told him.

21

Back in Lily's office. I lit another smoke, waiting.

"He's got a genius IQ," Lily said. "Tests right off the scale."

"I could tell."

"What else can you tell?"

"He's video-phobic, right? Somebody photographed him, maybe videotaped. While something ugly was going on…maybe to him. You see the same reaction from some kids when a flashbulb goes off."

Storm edged forward. "He was examined at our hospital. After the attack on his baby brother. They found something besides the knife scratches."

I turned my face to her, waiting.

"A prolapsed rectum," she said, icy hate in her soft voice.

"The parents?"

"Wolfe thinks so," Lily said, something standoffish in the way she said it. I wasn't going to let it go by twice.

"Wolfe is your pal, right?"

"Sure."

"Your sister?"

"What's your point?"

"What's yours?"

She looked across the desk to Storm. Shrugged her shoulders. "Luke's been sexually abused. Wolfe should be right on top of it— she knows what we know. But she's waiting…like there's something more.

"And she doesn't like him." Immaculata's voice, stepping into the room.

"How do you know?" I asked over my shoulder.

"Luke knows. He told me."

Immaculata had a baby. Lily had a glowing teenager named Noelle. Storm was pregnant. Wolfe had no children. I never would. I glanced at Storm's swelling belly. "You're sure you're not…?"

Lily caught my look. "No, it's not that. Wolfe is just like us. She adores Noelle. And Flower. She knows something."

"And you want…?"

"We have to protect the child," Immaculata said. "That's what we do here."

"Wolfe won't talk to me," I said.

Lily smiled her Madonna's smile. "She might…she likes you.

Storm giggled.

Women. "I'll take a look," I told them. Immaculata kissed me on the cheek.

22

Max and I motored over to West Street, took it north past the triangular wedge of the short-stay motel at Fourteenth Street, hooked a U-turn, and headed back downtown. Horatio Street runs through the Village, a nice block, brownstones, well kept. On the other side of the highway, it's a dead-end street, runs right up against the filthy Hudson River.

The Prof was there, wrapped in his long overcoat, a flaming red silk scarf around his neck, the ends trailing almost to his feet.

Midafternoon now. When it turns dark, the long parking lot parallel to the river becomes a hustler's strip. Boys work the pavement, competing for the attention of the cars that slowly cruise the circuit. Manicured fingers push buttons— tinted glass slithers down. Young faces ravaged by the acid of their lives appear in the opening, auditioning on a private TV screen. The winners get to climb in the front seat and open their mouths. They usually finish at the end of the concrete strip— it doesn't take long. The kids get out of the cars and wait for the next customer. Sometimes a dark posse car comes by, loaded with cold-eyed blacks fondling automatic weapons. The crack express. Then the kids become customers themselves.

Out here, the winners go to jail. The losers get dead. Freaks don't like their little boys covered with condoms, but they don't mind a shroud.

We got out of the car, standing side by side. The Prof stepped into the space between us.

"There was more to the score," the little man said.

"You have enough time?" I asked him.

"I didn't Hoover the place, Ace. You never know when the maid's gonna show."

The Prof had graduated from shotgun bandit to hotel burglar, one of the very best. Worked with a shoeshine box over his shoulder, no nerves. But he wasn't perfect— I'd met him in prison. Every wheel has a double zero someplace, you spin it long enough.

I barely felt the little man's touch as something slipped into my coat pocket. We worked this 50-50. The Prof got half for taking the up-front risk of going inside— I split my half with Max.

"The cash ain't wrapped in trash, bro'. The freak had a Xerox in his pad. I made you some copies."

I fingered a roll of paper. The money would be inside.

"Pictures?" I asked.

"The Yellow Pages, man."

A pedophile's address book. Maybe worth more than the cash.

Traffic noise at a distance. Safe and quiet where we were. Little knots of people all around, dealing. Nobody looked too close.

"Drop you anywhere?"

"I'm cribbed up north, 'home. Get me to the tunnels, I'll ride the rails."

We dropped him off at Fourteenth and Eighth. Headed back downtown.

23

The white dragon tapestry was barely visible in the streaked window of Mama's restaurant. All clear. We parked in the alley behind the joint, entered through the unmarked steel door. The kitchen crew nodded to us, eyes over our shoulders in case we hadn't come alone.

We took my table in the back. I held my hand at stomach height, indicating a child. Then I went rigid, holding my arms out so tight they trembled. Pointed at Max, a question on my face.

He nodded. Taking me to see Luke had been his idea. Mama stood between us— I hadn't seen her approach. She bowed to Max, to me. We returned her greeting. She snapped something at the young Chinese pretending to be a waiter. I should know the Cantonese words for hot and sour soup by now, but Mama never seems to say the same thing twice.

The tureen of soup came. Mama served Max first, then me, then herself.

Max took a sip. Made the sign of a flower opening itself to the sun. I told her it was the best she ever made. Mama nodded curtly— any lesser praise would be a grievous insult.

Mama toyed with her soup, hawk-watching me and Max to make sure we emptied our bowls. Refilled them without being asked.

The waiter cleared the table, put glasses of clear water before us, a small porcelain ashtray.

I pulled the Prof's package out of my jacket, unwrapped it carefully. Separated the cash from the paper, put the paper back inside my pocket.

Mama riffled through the money, counting it quicker than any machine could. Almost six grand. She cut it in half, pushed one pile to me, one to Max. We each separated a piece, handed it back to her. Mama was my banker, holding a piece of every score, keeping ten percent off the top for herself.

She held up the bills Max handed her. "For baby," she said, not bothering with sign language. Max didn't argue with her— he wasn't tough enough for that. He lit himself a smoke from my pack.

"Everything good now," Mama said. "Back to old ways.

24

When Mama got up to attend to her business, I made the sign for Luke again, telling Max I wanted to know why he was pulling me into this.

The warrior opened his eyes wide, pointed to them. He'd seen it too.

Nothing more to say.

I needed an excuse to see Wolfe again. It would come to me. Max and I went through the Harness Lines, but I couldn't find a horse that appealed to me.

I thought about the racetrack. About going there with Belle, watching as the big girl so deeply identified with a game mare who came from off the pace. Bouncing in her seat, yelling, "Come on!" Her battle cry.

The last words she screamed at the police before they cut her down.

If love would die along with death, this life wouldn't be so hard.

A tap on my shoulder. Mama. The bench opposite me was empty. My watch said four-thirty. I must have gone somewhere else, losing track of time.

"Call for you. Island man."

I picked up the pay phone, one of several standing in a bank between the dining room and the kitchen.

"Yeah?"

"Greetings, mahn. I have some work for you."

It was Jacques, a sunny-voiced gun dealer who worked the border between Queens and Brooklyn. Firepower to go, wholesale lots, cash and carry.

"I got plenty of work now."

"This is your work, mahn."

"I don't do deliveries anymore."

"Your true work, mahn. Everybody knows. Come see about me."

"In a couple of hours," I told him, and hung up.

25

My true work. Wesley said it was a bull's-eye painted on my back. But he was gone, hunting the devil, not even leaving the cops a scrap of flesh to put under their microscopes. Wesley, the stalking sociopath. The perfect hunter-killer. We'd come up together, practiced the same religion when we were kids. But the ice-god had come into his soul until he wasn't human anymore.

In the dark part of the streets, people whispered he wasn't really dead.

The sun dropped behind me as I drove along Atlantic Avenue toward deeper pockets of darkness. Turned into a narrow driveway, flashed my high beams twice.

A barge-sized old Chrysler rolled slowly across my field of vision in the rearview mirror. It came to a stop, blocking my Plymouth from the street. I looked straight ahead, waiting. Heard the icy dry sound of a pistol being cocked.

"Come on out of your car, nice and slow. Leave the keys." West Indian voice, not Jacques's.

I did what the voice said. He was a slim young man, hair cropped close, prominent cheekbones dominating a pretty face, tiny, lobeless ears pinned flat to his skull, big eyes with a bluish cast in the night light, long lashes shadowing. Reddish highlights dominating mahogany skin. Wearing a dark green Ban-Lon long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the neck over dark slacks. Looked like the kind of kid the wolves would jump on as soon as he hit the prison yard. They wouldn't know what they were dealing with until the guards came. With the body bags.

He stepped to one side, the gun tracking me, waist high. I walked straight ahead. A door opened. I heard the Plymouth's engine kick over.

Down a flight of metal steps. Felt the young man behind me, heard the door close, bolts snap home.

Horseshoe-shaped table, the midpoint against the wall. Jacques in the center, an old woman on his left. One man sat on each wing. I stepped into the open space, waiting.

"So you came, my friend." A faint light glinted on Jacques's high cheekbones.

"Like you asked."

Another man stepped out of the shadows. Patted me down, neck to ankles. I stood still for it— every church has its own ceremonies.

The man stepped back. Returned with a straight-backed chair. I sat down.

"Anything you want, mahn? A drink, maybe? Some fine rum we have here."

"A cigarette?"

"You don't have any?"

"I came empty."

A smile bloomed on the Islander's noble face. I'd shown him respect by walking in with empty pockets. He knew what you could fit in a pack of cigarettes— he was in the business. Jacques nodded at one of the men on the table's wing. "Get my friend cigarettes."

The man got up, extended a pack to me.

Jacques's voice was soft. "Mahn, that is not what you do. My friend does not want your cigarettes, he wants his own."

"How I know what he smokes?" the man said sullenly.

Jacques's voice went chilly. "You ask him, mahn. Ask him nicely. Then you go out and you get what he wants. A fresh, new pack. Is that so hard, now?"

"What you smoke?" he asked me.

I told him. He walked away.

Jacques shrugged his shoulders. "Young boys, Burke. All hot blood. Better they learn from a gentle man like me, huh?"

"Yeah."

"This lady has a problem, my friend. I would like for her to tell you. All right?"

"Sure."

He turned to the old lady. "You tell the man now, missus."

"He look like the police to me," the woman said.

Jacques chuckled. "Don't let that ugly white face fool you, lady. This is a very bad man."

"He gonna help me?"

"We will see. First, you tell him what you tell me. Come on now.

The old lady gathered herself, her face turned toward me, her eyes somewhere else.

"I got a grandson. Derrick. My daughter's child. He almost four years old. My daughter on the Welfare, lives in that hotel out by the airport. Her man is a vicious beast. Beat her all the time, take her check. He beat my grandson too. For nothin'. Right in front of my eyes. I go to stop him once, an' he punch me right in my face. Broke this bone, right here." Touching her face, eyes focusing on me now.

"Monday my daughter calls me. Says her baby run away. I tell her, how could that be?— he too small to run away. She cryin' and all, says the police there. Ain't nobody seen her man. My Derrick is gone."

A tap on my shoulder. Jacques's man, handing me a pack of cigarettes. I slit the cellophane, took one out. The man handed me a paper packet of matches— I fired one up.

Jacques leaned forward. "We found the man, Burke. Talked to him. He say he knows nothing. Okay. We talk to the girl too. Same story. It is a story, mahn. Finally, she tells us the man took the baby out of there, said he's going to give the child to another woman of his."

I dragged deep on the smoke. Still waiting.

"What we need is a man to look, Burke. Look around."

"Why me?"

"It's what you do, mahn. Your work, like I said. People know, word on the street— Burke looks for runaways, yes?"

"The baby didn't run away."

"I know. This good lady here, she is one of us. Like a mother, always to help, that is the way she is. She wants her grandson back."

"Why don't you ask the man? Ask him again."

"He has vanished, mahn. We are looking for him, but…for now, until we find him…"

"It's a long shot."

"I know, mahn, but…"

"Obeah," the old woman said. Like it explained everything.

"Why do you say that, ma'am?" I asked her.

"That is what I heard, white man. You know them?"

"No."

"Her man, Emerson, that is his name. He is with those people. I think that is where he take my grandson. To be with them too."

"You take a look, mahn?" A soft undertone in Jacques's voice, the sun banked.

"A quick look," I warned him.

"Clarence will go with you," he said, nodding at the young man who met me in the parking lot. "In case there is a problem with any of our people, yes?"

"So long as he listens."

"Clarence, for this work, Burke is your boss, you understand? Like it was me talking. I told you about this guy. You listen, and you learn."

The slim young man nodded agreement.

"We have anything else to discuss?" he asked. Meaning: how much?

"We'll settle at the end," I told him. "No guarantees. Clarence has all the information?"

"I have it all." Clarence's voice, gentle and calm.

"Let's do it, then," I said.

26

"We'll take my ride," Clarence said, standing in the parking lot.

"I'm not hitting Queens in a posse car, son."

"Posse? No, mahn, we will go in my car. A true West Indian car. Wait here."

He pulled up in an immaculate Rover 2000 TC, British Racing Green. I climbed inside. The black leather smelled new, the walnut trim gleamed. Clean and spare, letting the craftsmanship show.

"Very fine," I congratulated him.

"This is my baby," he said, flashing a quick smile.

27

On the way over, I read through the contents of a thick manila envelope Clarence handed me. All the police reports, a complete package, even the SSC records. SSC, Special Services for Children, the agency that investigates child abuse. It used to be called BCW, Bureau of Child Welfare. Now they call it CWA, the Child Welfare Agency. That's a politician's idea of social change— change the names. You can tell when someone first got stuck in the net by the name they call it. Same way you can tell how long a man's been in jail by his prison number. I didn't ask where Jacques got the records.

We took Atlantic all the way through East New York, turned left on Pennsylvania to the Interborough, found the Grand Central. Clarence pointed the Rover's nose to La Guardia.

We exited at Ninety-fourth Street, crossed over the highway. The hotel was a long, thin rectangle, the narrow piece fronting the service road to the highway. Clarence pulled in the back way. Plenty of parking.

"She's inside. Still lives here. You want to start with talking to her?"

They don't let you stay in those hotels once you lose your meal ticket— maybe the Sherlocks at SSC thought the baby really had run away on his own. "Let's wait a minute," I told him. "Get the smell."

He nodded agreement. I lit a cigarette— Clarence tensed, like something was going down. I pulled out the ashtray— it was a virgin. I rolled down the window, blew the smoke outside, felt him relax.

A corroding van sat diagonally across from us, grounded on four flat tires, an indistinct figure behind the wheel. An orange BMW approached. Stopped. Man on the passenger side stepped out, went over to the van. Money showed. A hand extended out of the van, a Ziploc bag held aloft. The streetlights caught the vials of crack inside, sparkling. Street diamonds.

"Rastas," Clarence said. Yeah. Ganja for fun, hard stuff for money.

A dog barked, close by.

A woman staggered out the side door, high-yellow complexion, wearing white shorts and white spike heels, her makeup as sloppy as the cheap wig sitting lopsided on her head. She stumbled, one hand against the wall to guide her.

"Crack whore." Clarence's flat, uninflected tour guide voice.

Four boys came out the same door, wearing black vinyl jackets draped to their knees. They swept the street with hard looks, challenging. The leader crossed over to us, the others flanking out behind. He stopped in the street, waiting. Clarence watched him the way a gorilla watches a jackal. I'm a vegetarian, you understand, but if you insist…

The leader veered to his right, moving off, shooting a last warning look. Clarence held the automatic calmly against his thigh, looking nowhere special.

28

The security guard at the door was a careful man, watchful that no visitor meant him harm. The tenants had to look out for themselves.

"Room 409," Clarence said, letting me lead the way. The same way you did in the jungle: point man on the alert, next man up with the heaviest firepower.

The stairs smelled of human waste. A large pile of it was on the second landing, wearing a blue-and-orange Mets baseball cap with matching jacket. He completed the ensemble with a regulation Louisville Slugger.

"What you want here, whitey?"

Clarence slid in next to me, pointed his 9mm automatic at the pile's face. "Business," he said, soft-voiced. "Maybe business with you. What you say, mahn?"

The bat clattered as it bounced on the concrete floor. The waste pile backed away, mumbling something.

Carpet runner on the corridor floor as thin as stockbroker's ethics. The walls were beige filth, the doors the color of starving roses. Numbers scrawled on their faces with black grease pencil. Murky light fell in spotty pools, most of the overhead fixtures wrecked— pre-mugging preparation.

We found the room near the end of the corridor. "When we get inside, follow my lead," I told Clarence, motioning him to one side in case they answered my knock cowboy-style. I put my back against the wall, reached over, and rapped lightly on the door.

Nothing.

I rapped again, hard. The door opened a crack.

"Who is it?" Woman's voice, phlegm-clogged.

Clarence answered her. "We come from your mother, Miz Barclay…she sent us. We have something for you.

"Emerson, he ain't here. I tole you."

Clarence pushed the door with his palm, gently. I followed him into the room. The woman walked ahead of us. Sat down on the bed. The room was long and narrow, dominated by a double bed. Bathroom door stood open to the right, Hollywood refrigerator against the other wall, two-burner hot plate on a shelf. A small color TV set sat on a black metal stand, complicated arrangement of antenna loops on top, looked like a model of the solar system. On the screen, cops wearing suits they would have had to explain to Internal Affairs were chasing drug dealers in their Ferrari.

"We need to ask you some questions, ma'am. This guy, he is from Jacques. Understand?"

"Yeah." She never took her eyes from the screen.

I walked over, turned it off. Anger flickered in her eyes— she wasn't drunk.

Clarence drifted over to where he could watch the door, hand in his pocket. The woman lit a cigarette, retreating into dullness.

"The night Derrick disappeared," I asked her, "tell me when you first noticed him missing."

"I dunno. Maybe nine o'clock, ten."

"What did you do?"

"We…I went lookin' for him. Asked everybody. You ask them, they'll tell you."

"And then…?"

"We couldn't find him. So I called the cops."

"What time was that?"

"I dunno…maybe midnight."

The 911 call had been logged at 3:28 a.m.

"Where was Emerson?"

"Emerson don't stay here, mistah."

"Where was Emerson that night?"

"He wasn't here. I tole the cops. He wasn't here."

She wasn't going to tell us anything. Years of dealing with Welfare and Child Protective Services had perfected the sullen-hostile-stupid routine. The cops had already threatened her with a murder rap if she was shielding Emerson. She didn't look afraid of anything society had to offer.

"You got a silencer for that pistol?" I asked Clarence.

"I got this, mahn," he ice-whispered, taking a straight razor from his pocket.

"That'll do. Start on her arms— it'll just look like more tracks when they find the body."

She was off the bed, opening her mouth to scream as Clarence slammed her back down, driving his shoulder into her chest, stuffing a handful of the ratty bedspread into her mouth. He pinned her flat with one knee. The razor gathered light as if it were a crystallized gem, waving hypnotically before her eyes. Snot bubbled in her nose as she fought for breath.

I leaned over her. "You want to tell us, now? Before we start cutting?"

Her head nodded hard enough to snap her neck. Clarence pulled the bedspread from her mouth, shifted his hand to the back of her head, pulling hard on the hair to expose her throat. The razor was ready.

"You scream, it's your last one," I said.

"Emerson took him— I didn't do nothin'."

"I know. Tell me what happened."

"Derrick was bad. Emerson and me was…in the bed. Derrick wouldn't be quiet, so Emerson picked him up to give him a slap. Derrick wet on Emerson and Emerson punched him in the chest. When we got done…in the bed, Derrick, he was still layin' there. We couldn't do nothin' with him. Emerson put him in one of the bags."

"What bags?"

"Over there," she said, gesturing with her eyes. In the corner, a box of green plastic Hefty bags.

"Then what?"

"Emerson, he went out."

"What did he say when he came back?" I asked her, guessing.

"He say, nobody ever find Derrick. It's okay."

"How long was he gone?"

"I dunno."

Her theme song— but I believed her this time.

"Why'd you call the cops?"

"SSC was comin' the next day. To check on the baby. They took him away before."

"And cut your check, right?"

"Yeah."

"Does Emerson have a car?"

"No, he ain't got no car. He had a car, but…"

"Never mind. He calls you, right?"

"I ain't got no phone here."

"There's pay phones downstairs."

"He don't never call me. Sometimes, he come by."

"On check day?"

"Yeah."

I signaled to Clarence. He stepped away from her, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

My eyes caught a color photograph on the dresser, propped up in a goldtone frame. I walked over to it. The woman, standing next to a tall, sheik-handsome man with a mustache, wearing a cream-colored suit, panama hat.

I held it up. "This Emerson?"

She nodded.

I popped the picture out of the frame. "Fix it," I told Clarence. His razor sliced surgically, leaving me just the man's photo. I slipped it into my pocket.

"What gonna happen to me?" the woman asked.

"Nothing. You're okay."

"I'm pregnant, mistah," she said as we stepped out the door.

29

We exited the hotel into a blanket of misty rain. Clarence started to cross the street. I patted his arm to halt him.

"The car's over there, mahn."

"Emerson didn't have a car."

"So what we do?"

"What he did. Come on."

30

We walked down the block, heading for the lights of La Guardia Airport to the north. Pitch dark now, but the block was choked with humans. Wheeling, dealing, stealing.

"Too many eyes," I said to myself. We crossed the service road— stood on the other side. To our left, the bridge to the airport. A deep ravine underneath, cut down the middle by the Grand Central Parkway.

"Let's try down there," I told Clarence.

We stepped in carefully. The underbrush was so thick you couldn't see the ground. We worked our way downhill. I spotted a refrigerator crate lying on its side against a tree, motioned Clarence to be quiet. A man crawled out of the crate, shuffled off into the darkness. We followed a narrow dirt trail toward the highway. On both sides, humans. A whole colony of homeless, living in the jungle. I could feel the watching. No way Emerson buried a baby here without being seen.

We reached the highway, turned left, in the direction of Manhattan. Cars shot by only a couple of dozen feet away— we were invisible.

"How we gonna find anything out here, mahn?"

"Keep quiet, Clarence. Let me work."

The monster's work. Being him. He didn't have a car. He had a body. He didn't have time.

Feeling my way.

Moonlight glinted on tree branches. Taking me back to the jungle in Biafra a long time ago. This time, hunting. Then, I was the prey.

Voices. Chanting sound from above us, high on the rise. We started up the hill. I looked back at Clarence— the pistol was in his hand, face set.

We stepped into a clearing. The moonlight slanted, pulling my eyes to a gnarled tree growing on a sharp angle out of the sloping ground. Something…I looked closer. Suspended from a rope, a leather bag, maybe two feet long, banana-shaped. The seam was closed with heavy stitches, crosshatched with long pins, pearly red and white heads in an alternating pattern. The bag swung gently in the night, like a lynched man. I felt the fear imploding in my gut. My hands shook.

Clarence saw it too. "Juju," he whispered. "Very bad, mahn. This is an evil place."

We skirted the tree, climbing toward the top. The chanting came closer. Then we saw them. A phalanx of black males, standing in a wedge formation. Wearing long white shirts with little round collars, black pants. Looking out over the rise, the leather bag swinging down below them. Clarence raised the pistol, sighting in.

I whispered, "No!" Tugged at his sleeve, pointing to our right. He shuddered, his whole body shaking.

I took the lead. We worked our way about another quarter mile in the direction I'd pointed, climbed down to the highway.

"He couldn't go that way," I said, pointing back to where the chanters worshiped the leather bag. "We've got to cross the road. Ready?"

Clarence nodded. We waited for a break in traffic. Made a dash for it. Waited on the highway divider for another break, charged across to the other side.

We skirted the airport, the giant planes fog-shrouded, only their lights visible, following the chain link fence. No place to hide a body. We came to a residential block running parallel to the airport. Turned right.

"What you looking for now, mahn?"

"Water," I told him. Thinking back to prison. Watching and learning. Studying the freaks. They're always magneted to water. I remember asking the Prof about it, one cold day on the yard, trying conversation to keep warm.

"How come the skinners always work near water, Prof?"

"It's astrology, schoolboy. The stars in the sky never tell a lie— you know what they say, you can find your way.

"Astrology is bullshit."

"No, bro', here's what I know. The true clue— the real deal. Inside, a man's not blood, he's water. That's what we are, mostly water. The moon pulls the water, the tide takes the ride. Same moon pulls on us."

"So how come the freaks…?"

"The moon's for seekers, schoolboy. Some it pulls strong, some it pulls wrong.

I knew there was water out there. Rikers Island stands just to the west of the airport. Nice name for a jail. I remembered hearing the water from my cell window. Emerson must have done time, must have been there too. He'd know.

The chain link fence made a ninety degree left turn. I looked up at the street sign. Nineteenth Avenue.

Big white metal panel on the fence, red and black letters: NO TRESPASSING.

"In there," I told Clarence, pointing.

The bottom of the fence had been pulled loose. Clarence held it up like a blanket off the ground. I slid through on my belly. He lay on his back, bench-pressed the fence off his chest, used his legs to push him under.

The jungle was thick on the other side. A clear path to the water, well worn.

Dampness muffled the airport sounds. Behind us, lighted houses, parked cars. Ahead, black water. I knew its name from the maps I'd read in jail— Bowery Bay.

The path disappeared. The undergrowth was belt high, cuppy ground below pulled at my feet. We pushed our way through, reached the edge. Thick wooden posts stood upright between cracked slabs of concrete. Scuffling noises, scratchy sounds. Rats.

"I don't like it here, mahn."

The Rock was straight ahead. To our left, the Hazen Street Bridge. The one that carried busloads of humanity every Visiting Day, some hearts full of pain, some mouths full of dope, to be exchanged with that first kiss, contraband-sweet.

We walked to the edge. Looked down. I found a fist-sized stone. Tossed it in. Listened for the sound.

"Deep water." Clarence.

"Deep enough," I said, watching the softly lapping current. Remembering how cons used to study the tide tables like it was the Bible. Rikers Island wasn't Alcatraz— plenty of guys had made it outside the wire, gone into the water and lived to tell about it, usually Upstate.

"This is it," I said to Clarence. "This is where he dumped the baby's body. Derrick's in there."

Clarence looked out into the night. His young man's voice fluttered in the dark mist. "No, mahn. I don't think so. I think maybe the devil has him."

31

My Plymouth was waiting in the side yard of Jacques's joint.

"You'll tell him?" I asked Clarence.

"Don't you want…?"

"Tell Jacques, I'll be around, give him a call."

His mahogany face was set, eyes troubled.

"It's okay," I said. "All over now. We found the truth— if the baby's not in the water, he's in the ground."

"It wasn't the baby's body the old woman wanted, mahn."

"It's all that's left."

"No, my friend, there's one thing left."

"Better ask Jacques about that first."

"Do you know we love children, mahn? Our people?"

"Yes."

"My mother, she was handy with the switch, mahn. A strong woman." His pale tracker's eyes held mine. "And Mother, she had her men friends too. But never, never once, mahn, I tell you, would any of them ever raise a hand to me— it would be worth his life. I started this"— waving his hand panoramically in front of him, the hand so quick to hold an automatic or a straight razor— "for her, mahn. For the money. She is gone now. Every year, on the day of her birth, I honor her."

I sat quietly in the car seat, waiting for the rest The bitch who raised me had no honor. But she had plenty of hotel rooms. Attica, Auburn, Dannemora…

"What would make a woman do that, mahn? Let a man kill her baby in front of her eyes?"

"The answers don't change things."

"What would be justice, then, mahn? So the baby may sleep in peace?"

I shrugged. He was such a young man.

32

I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge into my home country. A small truck rumbled ahead of me, the early sun orange against its quilted aluminum sides. When it parked, the sides would open into a portable coffee shop, serving the mass of humans who work the courthouse district. Morning brings citizens to the street, nervously plucking at the daylight like a protective coat, safe from the vampires for another day. Their city, they tell themselves. Night comes, and they give it back.

I live under the darkness, where it's safe. Safe from things so secret that they have no name. Under the darkness— it's not territory you occupy— you take it with you. It goes where I go— where I've been. The orphanage. Reform school. Prison. Even now.

There's others like me. Children of the Secret. Raised by so many different humans. Those who ignored us, those who tortured us. No place to run, so survival becomes all. For us, a religion. Nourished on lies so that we alone know the truth. An army of us. You can't see us, but we find each other. Like a special breed of damaged dog, responding only to the silent whistle.

All things come to those who wait.

Some of us wait in ambush.

Burke isn't my name. It was my mother's, I think. Baby Boy Burke it said on my birth certificate. Weighed 7 pounds 9 ounces, born 3:03 a.m. Mother's age at birth: 16. Father: Unknown. Number of children born alive prior to this birth: None.

I never looked for her, my mother. Never wondered if she believed she was doing the right thing by giving me up.

I have plenty of birth certificates now— you need one to get a passport.

Juan Rodriguez is the name on my driver's license. Juan's a citizen: pays his taxes, contributes to Social Security. He gets a parking ticket, he takes care of it.

Juan owns property too, but nobody knows. A piece of a junkyard in the Bronx— not the Mole's joint, a little slab of dirt not far from Yankee Stadium. The deal is this: The guy who runs it pays me a salary. I endorse the checks and he turns them into cash. Keeps a piece of each check himself for his trouble. Kicks out a W-2 form for me every year, pays the Workmen's Comp, the Unemployment, all that. You can hide your sins, but the IRS will find the paper.

Mama is my bank account. She doesn't pay interest, but she doesn't make bad loans to politically protected looters either, so my money is safe. Most of the cash gets converted into hard currency: gold, diamonds, like that.

In case I have to use one of my passports someday.

33

Pansy's ice-water eyes flickered disappointment as I let myself in. She always looks like that when I'm alone— she was born to war.

The phone on my desk never rings, at least not for me. It's not mine— the Mole wired it up from the loft downstairs. I can call out, as long as I do it early in the morning when the delicate souls who live below me are still sleeping off last night's chemicals. They can sleep easy, subsidized by their parents, immune to the NEA jihad.

I made Pansy and me some breakfast from the scraps in the tiny refrigerator. Drank a little ginger ale to settle my stomach. Smoked a cigarette while Pansy went up to her roof.

Slept through the day.

34

My sleep was full of refracted dreams. Like trying to read through a diamond.

Belle's red Camaro flying at a wedge of police cars. Gunfire. The Camaro pulled to the side of the road. The big girl got out, hands held high. Prison wouldn't hold her.

Flood bouncing a baby on her knee. A fat little baby. Japanese screen in one corner of the room, daylight pouring in. A hand on her shoulder. Not mine.

Strega on my lap, wearing blue jeans and Elvira's Zzzzap! T-shirt. Crying. Me patting her, telling her it would be okay.

The Prof's voice: "Nobody knows where he's going, but everybody knows where he's been."

Candy: "Take the leash. Feel the power."

Me standing over Mortay in the construction site, gun in my hand. Blood-lust shredding the fear in me. Asking the wounded death-dancer: "You still want Max?"

Blossom's face close to mine, covering me with her body, moaning, her copper-estrogen smell filling the shark cage, machine-gun fire in the night.

Lily and Immaculata, walking down the street, each holding one hand of the same little kid, swinging him between them.

I woke up, shaking like the malaria was back.

35

I let Pansy back out to her roof while I took a shower. Dressed slowly, in no rush. Promised Pansy I'd bring her something back from Mama's.

But first, another look. Time to collect a bargaining chip to put on Wolfe's table. I beat the late-afternoon rush-hour traffic out to Queens. Needed daylight to face what I had to do.

The Plymouth rumbled to a stop on the shoulder of the Grand Central, right across from the highway mile marker I remembered from last night. I hit the emergency flashers, positioned the mini hydraulic jack under the frame, pumped the rear end of the big car off the ground, loosened the lug nuts with a T-handled wrench.

I pretended to rummage through the trunk, checking the space around me. Nobody stopped to help— this isn't Iowa. Traffic droned on my left. The jungle waited to my right.

I slipped on a pair of heavy leather gloves. Lined with a thin layer of chain-mail mesh, they'd handle fire or razors. The machete was Velcro'd to the back of the fuel cell, waiting. I took an army blanket-poncho from the trunk, pulled it over my head. One more 360 look around and I was into the jungle.

The leather bag was swinging from the tree, bursting at its seams, the afternoon sun glistening on the hide. It seemed to squirm with life— like a cocoon ready to birth. I climbed the steep slope, reached up. I could just touch the lowest tip— no good. I climbed to higher ground, draped the nylon loop to the machete around my neck, and pulled myself onto the tree. Crawled out a thick limb until I was close enough. Grabbed the rope in one hand and hacked at the knot holding it to the branch. Three hard shots and it came free. I crawled backward off the tree limb, holding the bag in one hand like a fishing line with slimy bait at the end.

I pulled the poncho over my head, wrapped it around the bag.

Carried it in one hand back to the car. Everything went into the trunk. I merged with the traffic, U-turned at the overpass, headed back to Manhattan.

36

Driving home against the traffic, feeling the heat of the voodoo bag behind me.

"When you're on the road, always look back cold." The Prof. Talking to me on the prison yard years ago. Reminding me how suckers think they have to travel to see what they left at home. Prison even makes you miss hell.

Everything I'd had in Indiana— a short-term lease on belonging— it was gone now. I was home. Driving through the war zone, bombarded by imagery. I flicked on the all-news radio station. A human beat his baby to death, cut the kid up, fed the parts to his German shepherd. The authorities took charge. Killed the dog.

They say when a dog tastes human flesh, it'll always seek more. A dog like that, you have to put it down. When humans get the same way, we give them therapy.

Liberals always know what to name things. To them, graffiti vandals are ghetto expressionists. Probably think mugging is Performance Art too.

The mayor was saying something about the city being a gorgeous mosaic— all the lovely colors. Trying to govern from the fetal position, wearing shades. It looks different from ground zero.

A different rhythm too. Some Oriental kids haunt the libraries— others fondle their automatic weapons and visit the restaurants, asking for contributions. Hispanic hit-men, pretty in pastel, posture like blood-hungry peacocks in the discos while their brothers and sisters work double-shifts in the sweatshops to afford an education for their children that their ancestry will bar them from using. Some white kids plot their privileged futures in prep school while skinheads join the only club that will have them. Black doctors on their way to the hospital walk past children of their color spending their lives on concrete, going to the hoop, the crack-monster patiently waiting for their dreams to die. The baddest of the B-Boys form sidewalk posses, naming themselves after video-game killer-machines. They rat-pack citizens, taking them down like wild dogs, ripping, snatching. Gotta Get Paid. Rustling, they call it. Nitrous oxide and amyl nitrite have parties with never-connected kids who think devil-worship is something you can do part-time.

Only the names change. Nothing deadly ever really dies. Crank makes a comeback at rock concerts— Jello-shots are invited to all the right parties. Fatal fashions.

And the kids go down. Gunfire in the ghettos— cluster suicide in the suburbs.

Welfare hotels: crack dens with security guards, where residents rent out their babies as props to beggars. The older kids can't get library cards from those addresses, but they're welcome in the video arcades in Times Square. Where even the night is bright. And where it's always dark. Like in the subway tunnels, where the rats fear the humans who stalk the platforms, muttering their secret codes, looking for women to push onto the tracks.

Back alleys where abandoned babies in garbage cans are the lucky ones.

The sun shines the same on them all: yuppies on their pristine balconies, working on their tan; below them, winos on their urine-stained cardboard pallets, working on being biodegradable.

This isn't a city— it's a halfway house without a roof. Stressed to critical mass.

I was driving with camera eyes, taking snapshots. Three young men wearing silk T-shirts, their hair cut in elaborate fades, short on the sides, long in back. Lounging against a black Eldorado, the sparkling car resplendent in gold trim right down to the chains framing the license plate. Two decals on the trunk lid… USA and Italia. So nobody would mistake their ride for one of the moolingiane.

Dark-skinned vatos refuse to speak English when they're busted, protecting against the same fatal mistake.

The Chinese have a word for Japanese…means something like snake.

Only our blood is all the same color. And you can't see that until it's spilled.

Fear rules. Politicians promise the people an army of blue-coated street-sweepers for a jungle no chemical could defoliate.

And behind the doors, breeder reactors for beasts. The walls of some buildings still tremble with the molecular memory of baby-bashing violence and incestuous terror.

I know all this. And more. But it was the bag in the trunk that shuffled the fear cards in my deck.

37

I stowed it in Mama's basement. She watched me unwrap the poncho.

"You know what this is?" I asked her.

"Spirit bag— bad spirits."

"Yeah. You smell money, Mama?"

"No," she said.

I worked the pay phones upstairs, reaching out my probes for the Prof, leaving word.

38

Driving back, I exited Chinatown, turned right at Pearl Street. A pair of guards stood in their blue vinyl jackets, BOP in yellow letters across the back. Bureau of Prisons. Pistol-grip shotguns on slings over their shoulders. The MCC, the federal jail, sits on that corner. As blank-faced as the guards.

It looks the same inside.

39

I tried Mama from the hippies' phone a little before six the next morning. The Prof had called in, left word to see him anytime before ten.

I found him explaining the scam to Agatha. The Prof has organized more domestics than any union ever could. Newspapers were covered with red circles, I looked over his shoulder. All ads for lawyers. You had a car accident? Slip and fall in front of a supermarket? Your baby born brain-damaged? Give us a call. No fee unless successful. The stuff about "expenses payable at conclusion of case" was in much smaller type. He was running the game down, Agatha nodding her head, focusing, getting her act together.

"You want this to last, you got to move fast," he was saying to Agatha. "Fiona's gonna be at the hospital. Say what you got to say, don't let them play. One call, that's all. Got it?"

She nodded. He gave her a handful of quarters and she waddled off to the pay phones.

I lit a cigarette, sipped the cup of hot chocolate the waitress brought over, waited.

"Here's the slant on the plant, brother. You know Fiona? Works the trucks in the meat market? She's in the hospital. Some psycho chased her right up on the curb with his car. Broke her leg, ripped up some stuff inside. She's gonna need operations for days."

"So she needs a lawyer?"

"For what, man? The citizen who hit her, he disappeared. It'll go as a hit-and-run…those ain't no fun."

"Where's the money?"

"Agatha calls up about a dozen of these lawyers…the ones who advertise, dig it? She tells each one that Fiona is her daughter, okay? Sixteen years old. Tells them she was hit by an Exxon truck on her way to school. Ain't a shyster in town wouldn't grab that one, right?"

"Right."

"So Agatha tells them some sleazy lawyer got tipped to the case by one of the ER nurses, right? And the lawyer came to the hospital, signed up the case. Now Fiona, she's only sixteen, okay? Agatha wants to know if this is legit, see? She don't like the idea of vultures moving in on her poor baby. Wants a new lawyer."

"So?"

"So the lawyer, he calls the hospital. Verifies that Fiona's a patient, had some real harm done to her, vehicle accident. The boy thinks he got money in the bank. Agatha tells him she'll sign the retainer, no problem. Sweetens the deal a bit— tells the lawyer that Exxon already sent a guy over to the hospital, offered her a hundred grand to sign a release, see?"

"Okay, so she gets fifty different lawyers on the case. So what?"

"Here's where we score. Agatha tells the lawyer she needs some cash to tide her over. Got to quit her job, spend every minute with her baby-child in the hospital, needs cab fare to visit her, buy her some presents, keep her spirits up, all that. Some get the message, some don't."

"So what could she get, couple a hundred bucks?"

"Yeah. Couple a hundred bucks. Maybe ten, fifteen times before today's over. Not so shabby."

"Does it bounce back on the kid?"

"What kid? Fiona's twenty-five if she's a day. Been turning tricks since she came in from the sticks. They come around, ask her some questions, she don't know nobody named Agatha. Her poor mama been dead a long time."

"It's a lot of work for a little piece of change."

His eyes went sad. "Thought you'd dig the play, man. Stinging lawyers. And no risk."

"Yeah, but…"

"Maybe you got a better plan, 'home? Let's see now, what would a big-time thief like you need for a major-league take? How about a pistol and a getaway driver…then all you'd need is a liquor store."

"I wasn't downing your play, Prof."

"You ain't got the bail, you stay in jail, chump. You know why they call some plans foolproof, schoolboy? 'Cause even fools like you couldn't fuck it up."

"I got something else now."

"I wasn't offerin' to cut you in, Jim."

"Hey, I'm sorry, okay? It's a good plan."

His eyes held mine, alert now, homing in on the target. "You not getting a touch of that fever again?"

"What fever?"

"Monster fever, man. A kid gets done, it's just fuel for your duel, fool. You hear the bell, you go to hell. Like before that mad dog Wesley checked out. When you almost jumped the track."

I lit a smoke, cupping the match even though we were indoors. "I'm done with that," I said quietly.

After Belle died, I was heart-torn sad for a while. Missing what I'd lost. When I learned the truth…that it had all been for nothing…I lost myself. I'd hunted Mortay and it cost me Belle. And while I was stalking, scared, another hunter was in the shadows. Wesley.

Wesley never missed. He was a heat-seeking missile— he took your money, you got a body. Every time. If I'd just waited, stayed down, kept clear…

After that, I stopped being myself for a while. Needed a regular shot of risk-driven adrenaline to keep me alive. It almost made me dead.

"That's finished," I told him.

He held my eyes long enough to satisfy himself. Nodded. "What is it, then, schoolboy? You got something on?"

"Maybe." I brought him up to date, weaving the threads I'd gathered into a tapestry. Keeping it short and clipped, watching his face. He'd raise an eyebrow if I dropped a stitch.

He lit a cigarette from my pack, letting the smoke bubble softly from his mouth, stroking his chin.

"The bag plays like juju, but the sound don't tie it down; It's all got two sides…Mojo hand, Little John the Conqueroo, black cat bone, working roots…that's why fools call some of it black magic…not just 'cause my people started it, but 'cause there's another kind. Some of it's like a church, but there's things you can't ask the Lord for, see?"

"You don't think it's connected?"

"No way to know, bro'. How big is the bag?" I showed him with my hands.

"Big enough," he said.

40

I found a pay phone on the Upper West Side, called Wolfe on her private line.

"Yes?"

"It's me…you recognize my voice?"

"No. You must have the wrong number."

The phone slammed down.

41

I threw in another quarter, dialed Storm's number.

"Rape Crisis Unit."

I asked for her.

"Hello?"

"How's your little girl coming along?"

"My…Oh! Hi, Burke!"

Citizens don't think about security. "I just called Wolfe. She hung up on me."

"Now why would she…?"

"That's what I want to know."

"You didn't call on the private line, did you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Oh. Well, Wolfe's been acting strange lately, like we told you. She told Lily she thinks that line is tapped."

"So how do you talk to her? Only in person?"

"No, we call the switchboard. Wolfe says they can't run a tap on all the incoming calls without a live operator in place."

"Thanks."

42

"Special Victims Bureau."

"May I speak to Ms. Wolfe, please?"

"Who shall I tell her is calling?"

"Juan Rodriguez. I'm a federal parole agent."

"Please hold."

A flat, uninflected voice came on the line. "This is Wolfe."

"It's me again."

"How can I help you?" Same tone.

"I have something I'd like to show you. Something that may relate to a pending investigation."

"Bring it in."

"It's not that easy."

"You know the Four Flags diner on Queens Boulevard? Right next to the motel on the south side?"

"Yes."

"I eat lunch there around one-fifteen most days."

"Today?"

"That's my plan. In this bureau, you never know…emergencies and all .

43

Wolfe's battered Audi pulled into the diner's parking lot, jouncing over the speed bumps. The car looked like it had been painted with rust, the windows streaked, front license plate dangling from the one remaining bolt. Lola next to her on the front seat, a dark mass moving in the back. The Rottweiler.

They left the dog in the car— didn't lock the doors.

I lit a smoke, waiting.

A midnight-blue Firebird pulled in behind Wolfe's car. Rocco and Floyd got out, scanned the lot. They seemed to be arguing about something.

I finished my smoke, went inside.

The place was jammed with a lunchtime crowd. The hostess stopped me at the door.

"Smoking or Non-Smoking?"

"I'm meeting some people…they're already here."

"Smoking or Non-Smoking?"

"Wherever they're already sitting, okay?" I walked away from her before the tape could recycle. Spotted Wolfe in a far corner, her back against the wall, Lola across from her.

"Mind if I join you ladies?"

"Sure," she said. "Have a seat. We haven't ordered yet."

The waitress came by. They ordered chef's salad. I did too. Listened to them talk until the food came…the waitress would be too busy to stop back after that.

"Sorry about the call earlier."

"The private line is tapped," Wolfe said, no expression in her voice. Like she was giving me a weather report.

"The only one who could do that is…"

"Yes. It's not your affair. What do you want to show me?"

"You're looking for a baby. Derrick is his name, right? Disappeared from the Welfare hotel over by La Guardia?"

Wolfe looked at Lola, nodded.

"Somebody asked me to look for him too."

"And?"

"I think I know where he is."

"Alive?"

"No."

"You've seen the body?"

"No."

"Is there anything to connect this to…?"

"Emerson?"

She nodded again.

"Emerson beat the baby to death. In that room. Right in front of the mother. Then he went out to get rid of the body."

"How do you know this?"

"Just a guess. But if you found the body, it would be enough?"

"Depending on what shape it was in…"

"You got wants out for Emerson?"

"No."

"How come? Don't you even want to talk to him about this?"

Wolfe lit a smoke. I felt Lola's body shift next to me. "He's locked up," Wolfe said. "On another charge. In the Bronx."

"So you can't question him?"

"His lawyer says no."

"Or her?"

"She hasn't been arrested." Meaning she could talk to her, but she didn't have enough ammo to do it yet.

"Let's say, just to be talking about it, that you knew he left the hotel room with the baby's body…came back in an hour or two, what would that tell you?"

"Nothing much. You can cover a lot of ground in a couple of hours."

"And if he didn't have a car…or access to one?"

"Okay. You going to give us a nice sworn-to-under-oath affidavit about this? Be a confidential informant?"

"I can't do that…I don't know anything, see? I'm just talking about a theory."

"We can't get a search warrant on a theory," Lola tossed in, trace of a Brooklyn accent coming through for the first time.

"You don't need a warrant to search some places."

Wolfe's eyebrows rose.

"Public places," I said.

Wolfe leaned forward. "What do you have to show us?"

"It's in my car."

We finished our meal. They spent the time talking about Lola's new boyfriend. Sounded like he wouldn't be around long.

They picked up my check.

44

"I'm parked against the back fence. An old Plymouth. Pull your car next to mine, open your trunk."

I caught Rocco and Floyd in the edge of my vision. Wolfe's Audi pulled in. Lola went around the back to open the trunk. Wolfe snapped a lead on the Rottweiler, walked him over to my car.

"Bruiser, stay!" The beast dropped into a sitting position the way a sprinter settles into the starting blocks, eyes only for me.

I opened the duffel bag in the trunk, pulled out the blanket inside. Uncovered the leather bag.

"You know what this is?" I asked.

Neither of them said anything.

"I traced Emerson's path from the hotel. Found this along the way."

"The way to where?"

I told them about the dark water surrounding Rikers Island. Step by step.

"You think the baby's in that bag?" Wolfe.

"Maybe some pieces of him, but I doubt it. I think he's in the water. You can get divers without a warrant, right?"

"Yes. But it's a long shot. Unless he weighted it down, it could be anywhere."

"Worth a try."

"Sure."

"I'll put the bag in your trunk. The coroner will tell you the rest."

"And how did we come by the bag?"

"I figure, maybe Rocco and Floyd were doing some investigating, ran across it, cut it down. Tagged it in an evidence sack, all the right stuff."

"When would they have done this?"

"Why don't you ask them," I said, flicking a glance to my left.

Wolfe spotted them. "Get over here!" she shouted. Lola giggled. They walked over, looking everyplace but at Wolfe.

"One of you two clowns put this in my trunk," Wolfe said, pointing at the bag.

"What is it?" Rocco.

"We don't know yet. You and Floyd found it last night."

"Huh?"

"Shut up and do it. I'll talk to you two when we get back to the office."

"We just thought we'd…" Floyd.

He caught a warning look from Lola, cut it short.

Rocco took the bag in his hands. An ugly low snarl came from Bruiser.

"No!" Wolfe barked back at him.

"I'll call you," I said to Wolfe.

She stepped close to me. The breeze ruffled her hair. Orchid perfume. "Give me a number. I'll call you."

I gave her Mama's number. She didn't write it down.

"I'm not there much. Leave a message.

"I know," she said.

They were all still standing in the parking lot as I pulled out.

45

I made my rounds the next few days. Patternless, like always, in case anybody was interested. Somebody left a message for me at the poolroom. Wanted to buy guns. A lot of guns, full-auto only. Probably the ATF, checking to see if I was still in business.

Dropped by the clinic in Brooklyn where they buy blood. I buy in small lots, but I outbid the Red Cross every time. The blood goes into small clear plastic packets. The way it works is this: The team hits a bank. One guy vaults the counter to grab the money while the others hold everyone down at gunpoint. The counter-vaulter cuts his hand going over, curses real loud, like it hurt. When the cops come, they send the lab for the spot where the blood spilled. DNA fingerprinting. They ever catch the robbers, the blood sample won't match. That's why rapists are the only humans you can count on to wear condoms in this town.

I collect matchbooks too. From restaurants I've never visited. They make good souvenirs to leave behind at a crime scene.

I never supply ideas, just equipment. Not a middleman, never in the middle.

There's also good money in body parts. Any part. I once saw an ad for a kidney. One hundred grand cash, jump right over that long waiting list. Sometimes, people are poor enough and cold enough to pop out a kid's eye, make him a more pitiful sight. A better beggar. Predatory anthropologists figured it out— offered the same service but with full hospitalization for the kid. Even threw in a few bucks. And they sell the eyes over here. Everybody wins. Fetal tissue is the perfect transplant material— it'll bond to anything and the body won't reject it. I wonder if the "pro-life" mob knows an abortion could save more lives than the mother's.

46