"That's okay. This'll be my last score. I got plans, anyway, do something else to make a living."
I put the bonds into my attaché case, walked out to the car. Barko was lying in the sun, basking in the glow of his recent triumph. Pansy's massive head was framed in the front window of the Plymouth.
"Could I look at her?" he asked.
"Tie your guy up first…just in case."
I opened the door and Pansy strolled out. I gave her the hand signal for friends, and she stood patiently while Elroy pawed all over her, even pulled back her lips to check her teeth.
"She's gorgeous, man. True Italian stock, I can tell. The Italians breed them much lower to the ground. It's good you didn't dock her tail."
I lit a cigarette, watching my dog.
"Her hips are like steel," Elroy muttered. "You work her on tree jumping?"
"No, she pretty much exercises herself."
"Burke, I got a great idea."
"What?" Shuddering inside. Elroy had this great idea in the joint once…pressurize a bunch of chemicals inside the home-brew the Prof was cooking up, turn the jungle-juice into high octane. The vat exploded, blew a big slab of concrete out of the wall in the kitchen. The Man thought it was an escape attempt and locked the whole place down for two weeks. The Prof hasn't spoken to Elroy since.
"You know what a Bandog is?"
"Not exactly."
"The newspapers, you know how they have those headlines: baby chewed to death by pit bull, Rottweiler mauls toddler…like that?"
"Yeah."
"Well, these fucking idiots, they don't understand. It's all in the way you raise them. It's not the dog, it's the owners." The maniac paused for breath, ready to make his pitch. "Anyway, you want to own a pit bull in New York now, you got to have special insurance, register it and all. Same for Rottweilers in England. See, what they really want to do is ban the dogs, get it?"
"No."
"You can only ban a dog if it's a particular breed, right? Like a Doberman or a collie."
"So?"
"So some breeders got the idea of combining breeds, you see what I mean? Like, if you cross a Doberman with a collie, you ain't got a Doberman, and you ain't got a collie."
I lit a smoke, wondering if he'd ever get to the point. If there was a point.
"So they started with pit bulls, 'cause they was the real targets. There's a lot of so-called Bandogs out there, crossing pits with Rhodesians, with bulldogs, Rotties, all kinds of crazy stuff. But the real thing, the true Bandog, you got to cross a male pit bull with a female Neo. That's the only way to go."
"What do you get?"
"They look like giant pits, man. Run maybe ninety, a hundred and ten pounds. All bone and muscle. And dead game."
"Damn."
"Yeah! Now the way I figure it, we mate my Barko and your Pansy, and we got the foundation stock for the best Bandogs in the world. Maybe get the first dogs to pull a ton and a half. What d'you think?"
"I never bred her, Elroy. Tried a couple of times, but she wasn't having any."
"Can't we at least try?"
"I'm not tying her up. She wants to do it, and you'll take all the puppies when they're weaned…
"I'll think about it, okay?"
"Yeah! Sure, I mean…only if they like each other, okay?"
"All right."
"Great! Let's see, okay?"
"Elroy, you psychotic, Pansy's not in heat."
"Just to see if they get along…come on, Burke."
"She's dangerous, Elroy. Big and dangerous."
"Barko's a charmer, man. Like his daddy. All the ladies love him."
He untied the pit. Barko ambled over, respecting Pansy's space. They sniffed each other. Pansy growled, but her heart wasn't in it, just testing. Barko stood his ground. They circled each other, sniffing again. Finally, Pansy lay down. Barko licked her face, lay down beside her.
"What did I tell you, man!"
"She gets in heat, I'll bring her back."
"Shake on it, partner," the demento insisted. He hadn't asked for any such reassurances about his bogus bonds.
I opened the door. Pansy jumped into the back seat. I climbed in, started her up. Leaned out the window.
"Elroy, this other scheme of yours…? What are you going to pull?"
"All I been through, man, I'm gonna write a book."
50
The trick with moving phony paper, it has to look legitimate and smell crooked. Suckers think stuff's been stolen, they know it's for real. Stop at any traffic light in the right part of town— somebody'll come up to your car with a camcorder or a VCR, still in the brand-new carton, all shrink-wrapped in clear plastic. The professionals, they know how much deadweight to put inside to get an exact match. When the sucker gets it home, he learns the truth. Bearer bonds, it's a little trickier. Same idea, bigger suckers.
I docked the Plymouth behind Mama's, right under the neat row of Chinese characters warning the locals the territory belonged to Max the Silent. Nobody ever parked there for long.
Snapped Pansy's lead on and approached the back door. The thugs let me in, giving Pansy a lot of room, watching her in wonder and admiration. She was too well trained to make a try for any of the food, but she slobbered her usual three quarts in anticipation.
Mama came back from her post, smiling when she saw Pansy. She won a setup bet with her cooks once, wagering on who could tell what country the dog came from. After she'd asked me first.
"Puppy hungry, Burke?"
"Sure is, Mama. She may have met her future husband today…gave her an appetite."
I brought her down to the basement as Mama was firing instructions at the cooks. One of them came downstairs lugging a steel vat by the handles, steam fogging the air around him.
I no sooner had "Speak!" out of my mouth than Pansy plunged her snout deep into the vat, making noises they'd censor out of the horror movies.
Upstairs, I sipped my hot and sour soup while Mama fingered through the portfolio of bonds, a pair of white gloves on her hands.
"This real company, Burke?"
"Sure thing, Mama. Trades on the AMEX. The bonds are issued on its international division."
"This division…?"
"Yeah, it issues bonds, some of them in bearer form." Real bearer bonds are as good as cash. Untraceable. No registration. You hold them, you own them. Like diamonds, only they don't have to be appraised.
"Some people, maybe they pay…ten percent, yes?"
"Sure."
"This take time, right? Send overseas, far away. Many people wash their hands in the same bowl, the water get cloudy."
"I understand. The manufacturer, he needs a third."
"One hundred thousand."
"A little more, I think, one-third."
"One hundred thousand. Everyone must be paid."
"Okay."
"For you?"
"Whatever you say, Mama."
She smiled her approval of my manners, ladled more soup into my bowl.
A shadow fell across the table. Max. He shouldered in next to me, bowing to Mama at the same time. She opened her mouth to yell something at the waiters, but one of them was there with a bowl for Max before she got a word out. She said something to the waiter anyway. "Smartass" sounds the same in Cantonese.
It was like old times, for a while. Yonkers had added a new feature to the evening program— some of the races were carded for an extra distance past the traditional mile…from a sixteenth to a quarter. I explained my foolproof, surefire, can't-miss handicapping system— the longer the race, the better the chance for the fillies against the colts. Class tells in the long run, and the female side of any species is built for endurance. They listened the way they always do: Max fascinated, Mama bored to narcolepsy. Mama isn't a gambler— her idea of a sporting event is a fixed fight.
Max had the racing form in his pocket and we went over it together. Mama politely excused herself, nodding toward the front door. In Mama's business, customers didn't use the front
door. But every once in a while some ignorant yuppie would ignore the filthy tables, the food-splattered walls, the flyspecked menus, and the rest of the unappetizing ambiance and actually order food. It was Mama's job to make sure they never came back— people like that interfered with business. A health inspector once visited the kitchen, tried to shake Mama down. A small gratuity was expected. Otherwise, he said, they'd have to close the place down for a while until it was brought up to snuff. Maybe even publish a notice in the paper that the Board of Health had found violations. Mama gave him a blank look. When the Health Code Violation notice was printed in the paper, she pasted it in the window. The health inspector never came back.
I scanned the form the way I always do, looking for the intangibles, that combination telling me a horse was ready to break out, overcome its past. Everything important but the breeding, that's overrated. I'd like to own a trotter someday. They don't cost that much, and I've scored heavy enough to pull it off more than once. But you can't own a horse if you've got a felony record, so that lets me out. I could open a day-care center, though.
Finally, I settled on a six-year-old mare. She was shipping in from the Meadowlands, a mile track with a long stretch. She always ran from off the pace, so conventional wisdom says she'd come up short transferring to Yonkers, a half-mile oval with a real short way home. But I figured the extra eighth of a mile in the fifth race would give her all the space she'd need. Morning line was 6— 1. I put a pair of fifties on the counter, pointed to Max. He matched it. I got up to call Maurice. Max can do a lot of things, but he can't telephone a bookie.
Max didn't let me pass, blocking the booth, his hands working, asking me to explain things again.
I went through it again— the Patience card is always in my deck. Caught his eyes, made the sign for "okay?" His face was expressionless, body posture relaxed. I shoved lightly against him. Good luck. Finally, he held up an open palm like a traffic cop: Stop.
I hunched my shoulders, opened my hands: Why?
He pointed at my watch— almost four in the afternoon, shook his head. Not time yet? I looked over to Mama at her register, couldn't catch her eye.
The hell with it. I lit a smoke. Max took out a deck of cards, shifted out of the booth, and sat down across from me. Dealt out a hand of gin. First card up from the pack was the ace of spades. No knock, results doubled. I made a gesture like writing something on paper. Max pulled the last score sheet from his pocket, pushed it over to me. He was into me for more money than I could steal in a lifetime. We'd been playing for years and years— the fool was going to hang in until he got even or pass the weight on to his daughter when he retired.
I got lost in the game. Like I was back inside, where killing time was an achievement. Max reached for a card. Mama came up behind him, tapped him hard on the shoulder. He turned to look at her. She shook her head side to side, emphatically. Max ignored her advice the way he used to ignore the Prof when we all jailed together. Tossed me the four of hearts. Gin.
I totaled up the score. The Mongolian was down another two grand and it was only…damn! Six-thirty.
The front door swung open. Immaculata— Lily and Storm close behind. They walked to the booth. Mac kissed Max, bowed her thanks. Max slid out of the booth, his job done.
51
Immaculata slid in next to me, Lily and Storm took the facing bench.
"What is this?" I asked Lily. "A surprise party?"
"We couldn't wait to get you on the phone. Mac called Mama, told Max to have you wait. We had to talk to you. Now."
"Okay. What?"
The dark-haired woman leaned forward, all the juice gone from her voice. "There's been another murder. Luke was in a foster home, in Gramercy Park. They left him alone for just a few minutes. He was watching television with another baby, three years old. When the foster mother came back inside, the baby was dead. Face all blue. She thought the baby had choked, called the paramedics."
"The call came in to our hospital," Storm interrupted. "We ran over there, to make sure…?"
"Where's Luke?"
Lily ignored my question. "The paramedics said the child hadn't choked on anything…marks on his throat, like he'd been strangled. Luke said he was watching the TV, didn't see anything. He was just watching the cartoons."
"You think the same people…?"
"Only a ghost could've gotten into that room, Burke. They're on the ninth floor."
"There's fire escapes. Balconies. There's always a way in. I know a guy went up twelve stories with a ladder he made out of dental floss. Who knew he was there?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter. Wolfe wants Luke."
"What d'you mean, she wants him? The kid can't be ten years old."
"Nine," Lily said. "If his birth certificate is the truth."
"Where is he now?"
Lily's eyes hard on mine. "Safe," she said.
"He's with us," Mac said. "At the temple." She meant the top floor of one of Mama's warehouses. Where she lived with Max.
"And you think Wolfe's crazy?"
"Not crazy," Storm put in. "Just wrong.
I turned to face Immaculata. "So you left him alone with Flower?"
Her eyes dropped. Wouldn't meet mine.
"You don't think Wolfe's wrong," I said to Lily, voice gentle and flat. If anyone was nuts, it was this crew.
"Luke needs to be in a hospital," Lily said, not giving an inch.
"We don't have joints for criminally insane babies."
"I know."
"What do you all want?"
Storm tapped her fingers on the counter, looking at her sisters, waiting. They'd talked this over before they came. "We want you to negotiate. With Wolfe."
"Negotiate what?"
"For some time. We need time. If Wolfe takes him now, she's going to charge him."
"He's too young to be charged with a crime."
"No, he's not, Burke. Wolfe says anyone over seven can be charged."
"Yeah, as a juvenile delinquent, or something. But they can't…"
I stopped talking as the ugly fear banged on the door of my consciousness. I was younger than Luke when they locked me up for the first time. That's what they did to ungrateful orphans who ran away from beatings. And pitch-black closets. And basements that smelled of human rot.
"You talked to him…?"
"He doesn't know anything," Lily said. "He'd pass a lie detector."
"You know what he is," I said, daring her to deny it.
"Yes, we know. But we don't know why. He wasn't born like this."
"So you want to make a deal. For treatment or something."
"That's a job for a lawyer. We can get him a lawyer. We have to know why. That's for you."
"I'm not a psychiatrist."
"We know what you are."
I started thinking like what I was. "Did the foster parents see you take the kid out of there?"
"I was there first," Storm said. "I called Lily. She came over with some more people. We talked to the foster parents while the others took Luke out. They didn't see a thing. Don't know where he is."
"Wolfe…?"
"Doesn't believe it for a second," Lily said. "She said she's got the kid on the books as missing. APB running for him. Said if he doesn't turn up by tomorrow, she'll get a search warrant. For SAFE. For Storm's house. For wherever."
"It's like that, huh?"
"Just like that."
I lit a cigarette, buying time. The woman warriors watched me, waiting. "Remember that time Wolfe had this case…girl about twenty-five…she'd been molested when she was eleven, long time ago? So she charged the guy, even though the statute of limitations was long gone? Remember, Lily? You testified that the girl had been in a psychiatric coma…couldn't even remember what had happened to her until she'd been in therapy for something else."
Lily nodded, waiting for the punch line.
"It went all the way up to the appellate courts, but they let the indictment stand. Said this freak, it was no
different than if he hit her in the head with a tire iron and she just woke up years later. The girl couldn't remember because of something he did, so he wasn't off the hook."
"I remember. We all do. It changed the law."
"Yeah. Well, Wolfe likes that kind of stuff. Making people pay."
We sealed the bargain without another word.
Sacrifice b-6 Page 9
