"I don't know how to estimate a job like this," I told him. "Could take a long time to—"
"I understand. Still…I was thinking, say, thirty thousand dollars. In cash, of course. Payable one–third now, one–third as you progress, and the final third when you tender your report."
"I was thinking seventy–five," I said, taking the traditional gangster lawyer's route: more than double your asking fee, get the biggest chunk you can right then, and expect the client to stiff you for the rest. "Half up front, half when I'm done."
"Yes, I'm sure," he said smoothly. "Perhaps a compromise is in order. Heather!"
I heard the tap of her heels, caught a glimpse of her black–sheathed hips as she brushed past me to my left. She was back in a minute, carrying a slim black anodized–aluminum case. She bent forward, her back to Kite, and put the case in my lap.
"There's fifty thousand dollars in there, Mr. Burke," he said. "In a form I'm certain will be acceptable to you. Will you take that as payment in full?"
I took it as a signal we were done playing this game. "Yes," I told him.
He nodded as solemnly as if we just signed a cease–fire treaty. "As soon as my client is available for your first interview, I'll call you."
I got to my feet, the aluminum briefcase in my hand. If Kite was surprised I hadn't opened it, his face didn't give it away.
Heather led me to the grille. When she got a few feet away, she stopped, slowly enough so I could see it coming. I stopped too. She backed up, one little step at a time, until her bottom was pressed hard against my crotch. The thick corset made it feel like a side of beef. "Thank you," she whispered, shifting her hips.
"Your ankle must hurt in those shoes," I said.
"I'm real good with pain," she said, twitching her bottom against me again. "And I still owe you. Don't forget."
The next morning was a Sunday. The blue dragon tapestry was in the window of Mama's restaurant. Cops inside. I wasn't worried about it—cops were always dropping in, wasting their time asking questions. There was plenty to ask about. The Chinese youth gangs had pretty much given up trying to get a toehold on the gambling industry. Their elders had been at it too long, had too many connections. And the young ones had decimated their own ranks in bloody turf wars that made the old Colombian kill–crews look like Quakers.
The new crew was mostly Fukinese, and their latest game is kidnapping. They aren't any good at it. The wild kids snatched shop owners right out of their houses, dragged them to some abandoned apartment building, tortured them into calling their families. The snatching was easy, but the vicious amateurs never mastered the art of the ransom exchange. Though they mostly got nabbed, the body counts kept going up, and the business community was pressuring the cops hard.
When I was a kid, one of my foster homes was right on the Chinatown border. The old border, next to Little Italy. Some of the kids I knew had real mothers, not the State–paid ones I got. I always listened to what real mothers said, trying to see if I could hear the difference in their voices, how come they had wanted their kids. The real mothers always pointed to the Chinese kids as role models. So studious, hardworking. So polite and respectful. You wouldn't see those kids hanging out on street corners or in some stupid gang. No, not then. We let immigrants build this country, then we leave our mark on them for gratitude.
Mama wouldn't touch rough stuff and the cops knew it. They knew she wouldn't talk to them too, but they kept coming.
I had time to kill, but I didn't want to leave the neighborhood, so I drifted over to a sidewalk kiosk.
"You got the Racing Edition?" I asked the Chinese woman, pointing at the comics section that covers the Sunday News.
"Not ready yet," she said, nodding her head at various stacks of the different sections waiting to be assembled into one edition. "You need coupons?" she asked brightly, holding out a colorful sheaf.
"No thanks," I said.
The woman deftly flicked the coupons sideways into a large carton without looking and went back to her work. A little girl, maybe nine years old—her daughter—was sitting at a makeshift desk inside the kiosk. Someone had jury–rigged a single bare lightbulb for the child to work by. Behind her was a perfect cardboard imitation of the wall of slots they use for mail at hotel desks. The scissors in her small hands flashed as she snipped the brilliantly–colored sheets of coupons into individual units, sticking them in the pigeonholes without looking.
I stopped by the door to light a cigarette. A white woman wearing a quilted green parka pushed past me, asked the kiosk operator: "You have any for Pampers?"
"Sure, we got. How many you need?"
"Twenty?"
"Pampers?" the Chinese woman called out to the little girl.
"Yes," the child said gravely, handing over the coupons.
"Twenty coupons, 50 cents off, two dollars," the Chinese woman told the customer.
"That's…what? Twenty per cent?," the woman in the green parka said. "No. I'll go a dollar, okay?"
"Dollar fifty," the Chinese woman said, holding out the coupons.
The white woman reached in her purse.
The little girl made a mark in her schoolbook, adding to a neat column of figures.
The old woman was a good poacher. Most people don't give a damn about the coupons, so she pulled them out of every paper. If somebody bitched, she could always give them back. And the white woman had just saved herself some real money too. Even with her Sunday paper costing an extra buck and a half, she was still way ahead of the game. If you know where to shop, you can buy anything in this city.
When I walked by the second time, the white dragon was back in the window. I went around to the alley in the back, slapped my gloved palm against the door. One of the thugs let me in. I took my booth in the back. The soup arrived about the same time Mama did. She serves it around the clock, always keeps a giant pot bubbling in the kitchen, throwing stuff in from time to time as the mood seizes her. It's the only thing she ever cooks herself.
"You had visitors?" I asked her.
"Not me," Mama said. "You. Bull cop."
That wasn't slang for Mama. Only one cop it could mean. Morales, the human street–sweeper. A while back, he'd been stalking me—some unsolved homicides inside a house of child–molesting beasts in the Bronx. I was guilty, all right, but he couldn't lay a glove on me no matter how many rounds we danced. Then I got caught between him and a psychotic woman detective fronting for a serial rape–murderer. At least that's what I thought, right until the end. She shot Morales, I shot her. She died. He took the shooting for himself, ended up a hero in the process. Morales always hated me. Probably still did. But he was a man, and he paid his debts.
"What'd he want?" I asked.
"He say, 'Kite is dirty.'"
"That's all."
"Yes. He wait for you. Long time. Order plenty food."
"He eat the food?"
"No."
"He pay for it?"
"Yes. Leave money on table. Right there," she said, pointing to a corner table.
"He say he want me to call him?"
"No. Say 'Kite is dirty. Tell Burke. Kite is dirty.' Then get up and go."
"Okay. Look, Mama—"
"You not like soup?"
"Oh. Sorry," I said, spooning up a mouthful. "It's perfect, Mama. As always."
"Yes. Max be here soon, okay?"
"Okay. And the Prof, you found him too?"
"Everybody come. Before ten, okay?"
"Thanks. Mama…?"
"What?"
"Is there any such thing as a sparkling ruby?"
"Sparkle?"
"Yeah. Like a diamond. But red."
"Not ruby. Ruby not sparkle. Red diamond."
"A red diamond?"
"Sure. Yellow diamond too. Call 'fancies.' But not so much."
"Not so much what?"
"Money. Fancy diamond not cost like pure white."
"But not cheap?"
"Oh no," she chuckled. "No diam
ond cheap."
I ate some orange–glazed duck with roast pork fried rice and snow pea pods, washed it down with ice water as I read the paper. I checked Parade first, always do. Whoever thought up the idea of a free stand–alone magazine in every Sunday paper in the country was a genius. I heard their advertising rates were the highest in the world.
Another subway rape in Jamaica. Another drive–by murder in Washington Heights. Another racial assault in Bensonhurst. Another woman beaten to death by her estranged husband, died with an Order of Protection in her purse. Another baby–raper pleaded guilty and got probation. They don't need to hire reporters in this city—the stories are all written; all they have to do is fill in the names and dates.
Max showed up before I could get to the race results. We still had some time, so I didn't argue when he pulled out a score sheet from our life–sentence gin game. One of the alleged waiters brought a fresh deck of cards, and we got down to it.
It was Max's lucky day. I never saw the cards fall so good for him. Even as bad as he plays, even with Mama hammering him with incompetent advice, he hit me with back–to–back triple schneids, something he'd never accomplished in the thousands of games we'd played until then. Max has got a natural poker face. And the card sense of a chimp. But when the Prof showed up, the little man took one look and said, "My man ain't grinning, but he doing some serious winning, ain't he?"
I nodded to acknowledge the obvious reality of the situation and set my teeth, praying for the cards to change. It wasn't the money; even at the tenth of a cent per point we always play, Max was into me for almost a quarter of a million dollars over the years. We'd agreed when we started that we'd settle up wherever we ended up, after this life was done. But I knew there was no way on this planet I was getting up from this game with Max on the streak of his life. The Mongolian would sit there until I started winning or Cuba started holding elections, whichever came first.
The Prof knew it too. He sat down next to me and started in on a stream of criticism that would have cracked concrete. Clarence sat next to Max, a smile flashing broadly in his ebony face as the warrior drew bonanza after bonanza. Hell, I fucking dealt him gin twice in one hour. It didn't matter who held the cards—I passed my turn to deal over to the Prof with no change in the result.
"You got one humongous hoodoo, Schoolboy," the little man intoned. "The double–jinx maxi–mojo curse. Ain't nothing to do but let it do its worse."
Max kept glancing to the heavens, as if wondering when the sky was going to fall, but he never so much as shifted position, superstitiously keeping everything exactly as it was for as long as the magic moment lasted.
It was almost one o'clock before I turned the tide. And it was two–thirty before he was convinced that his incredible run was actually over. He stood up, bowed deeply…and snatched the score sheet from the table so fast I saw a vapor trail behind his hand.
And it was getting close to four in the damn afternoon by the time Immaculata showed up, with Flower in tow. Max quickly signed to them both, explaining in painstaking—and painful—detail how he had accomplished the ultimate gin destruction of his own brother.
And then we had to have supper.
By the time we got down to business, it was dark enough for it.
Heather called Tuesday night, leaving a number I didn't recognize. It was after midnight when I got the message from Mama, but I called anyway.
"Hello?" Her voice was wide awake, buoyant.
"It's Burke," I said. "You called?"
"I wanted to…thank you again…."
I didn't say anything, waiting.
"…and to tell you, it's all set. Either tomorrow or Thursday, whatever you want. Anytime, day or night."
"What's all set, Heather?"
"The interview," she said, a throb in her voice now, telling me how important this was. To her? "He says to tell you you'll have as much time as you want, okay?"
"Okay. Let's make it Thursday, all right? First thing in the morning okay with you?"
"With me? Oh! You mean with—"
"Yeah. Nine okay?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
"See you then."
"Burke?"
"What?"
"Would you want me to, maybe come over and…see you?"
"I already said I'd do it, Heather. I made a deal; I'll keep it. Don't worry about it."
"Not for…that. I know you'll do it. I know you're a truthful person. That's all I care about, you know. The truth. It's holy to me. I'm just…sorry about what happened. And I thought I could maybe…make it up to you."
"We're square," I said.
"Well, if you ever change your mind…"
"You'll be the first to know," I said, and cut the connection.
Then I called the precinct and asked for Morales.
I met him at the dead end of Old Fulton Street in Brooklyn, a few blocks from the Federal Court. Outside of territory for both of us. He was already there when I pulled in, still driving that fire–engine–red Dodge Stealth, convinced it was the perfect undercover vehicle. Like every player in the city didn't know it was his.
"You all healed up?" I asked him.
"Like new," he growled, smacking his chest where Belinda's bullet had taken him hard enough to crack a rib a while back. He looked the same: ball–bearing eyes in pouchy pockets of flesh, a round face with a pushed–in nose and a thin scar of a mouth sitting on a tree stump of a neck. Stood a couple of inches shorter than me, short arms, big chest. Morales looked like a not–too–bright pit bull, but the first part was all wrong.
"Thanks for the stuff," I said.
"No problem. Like I left word, motherfucker's dirty."
"Meaning…?"
"He did work for Aiello. You know, the greaseball who took over for Sally Lou on The Deuce."
Sally Lou had been a fringe player for the wiseguys. Not a made man, but what they call an "around guy," sniffing at the edges, doing whatever. His game had been rough–stuff porno. In the freak sheets, he peddled it as "extreme, not terminal," but street talk was that he could find you a snuff film if you hauled enough green. No question about kiddie porn though—Sally Lou specialized in video of hairless little girls. He was gone now, part of the fallout in a mess I got into a long time ago. And, like always, some other slime seeped in to fill the void. Crime's like Nature—it hates a vacuum.
"What kind of work?" I asked Morales.
"I don't know exactly," the cop said with a "what the fuck does it matter?" shrug. "Legal research, it said on the bill. A big bill, I know that much."
"That's not dirty."
"Yeah, it is. Anything for that maggot Aiello is dirty. But I think it was something else. Word is, this Kite, he knows a lot of people. Political people."
"Like senators?"
"Like judges. Aiello was on the hook deep. A video studio, in a basement off Forty–fourth. The usual whips–and–chains stuff, no big deal. But there was little girls in there. Little girls. There was some kinda legal bullshit, like could we prove he knew they was underage? Fuck, you just look at the stuff, you know they wasn't grown. Anyway, the judge tosses it. Said the search was bad too. The CI spooked. Disappeared. Or maybe got done. But we couldn't produce him in court. That was just the excuse though—the whole thing was juiced from jump."
"Kite was the lawyer?"
"Nah, Aiello had a regular mob mouthpiece. Your old pal, Fortunato, remember him? Like I said, wired like a motherfucking Christmas tree. Fortunato put out the word Kite did the research, like I said. But the way I scope it, the only research he did was knowing a bent judge."
"Okay."
"I wish Wolfe was still on the job. Wouldn't have happened if she was there—too much media heat. I love that bitch."
"Me too," I said. Then I caught his look. "I mean, I wish she was still working too."
"Yeah. Right. Anyway, watch your back, Burke. If this Kite motherfucker knows judges, he knows cops too, you understand me?"
"Sure. Thanks.
"
"Anything else I could…?"
"Run a phone number for me?"
"You got it."
Early Thursday morning, I let Pansy out to her roof. Then I cut a fresh semolina bread at the two–third's mark, scooped out the interior from the one–third and painted inside the crust with a light coating of cream cheese. That was mine. I put the two–thirds piece and the guts from mine in Pansy's steel bowl. Then, on the hot plate, I heated up some Mongolian beef with scallions I took from Mama's and I poured the whole thing over the bread. When she came back downstairs, she snarfed it up like it was a vitamin pill.
I had mine with some cold ginger beer. To settle my stomach.
I dressed carefully that morning—I figured this woman had already seen enough lawyers, but I didn't want to look like a hood either. Or a cop. When I told her the problem, Michelle had come over the night before and picked everything out. "The alligator boots, babe. They're always perfect. Casual class—that's our look, okay?" She put together a pair of gray flannel slacks, a black–and–white striped shirt with a button–down collar, and a dark–purple silk tie. From a garment bag she carried over her shoulder, she pulled a soft charcoal wool sports coat. "This is perfect, honey. It's semi–structured. See, no shoulder pads. Lots of room, very comfortable. It whispers money. Put it on, let's see how it works."
"I'm sure it'll be—"
"Put it on, honey."
It fit perfect. Michelle's eyes were micrometers. "How much?" I asked her.
"Thirteen hundred—"
"What?"
"Oh, that was retail, honey. I got it for only six. Some bargain, huh?"
"Six hundred dollars?"
"Yes, six hundred dollars," she said, in the tone you'd use on a moron. A stubborn moron. "I do not buy at Bloomingdale's, baby. And you'll need this belt too—it'll go perfectly with the boots. Now give me some money, honey."
I couldn't wait for the clash of wills when it came time for her and The Mole to outfit Terry for college.
Pansy insisted on rubbing against my leg and being petted goodbye. So instead of cologne, I hit the subway wearing Eau de Neapolitan mastiff. And carrying the black aluminum briefcase, empty.
False Allegations Page 13
