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."
Sacrifice b-6 Page 7
