"You mean one more phone call, don't you?" I said, so close to his face I could see the pores. "Goodbye, old man."
The pack watched him walk to his car. Watched it drive away. Watched me use the pay phone again. Mama's voice was soft and clear. "He called. Say, same time, same place. Tonight."
Max and I walked back to the Plymouth. One of the young men in the pack caught my eye. I got the message. Don't. Come. Back.
I'd heard it before.
84
WE ROLLED back onto the BQE, heading toward Queens. Random loops, in case Julio was going to be stupid. Time to kill. Exited at La Guardia and looped around the airport, taking our time. Dark now, headlight patterns in the mirror. Max was watching, face turned to the rear. He made the "okay" sign as we pulled into the parking lot of one of the airport motels. We smoked a couple of cigarettes, watching the shadows dance. Men in shiny, pointy–toed boots with Cuban heels, light bouncing off thick shocks of heavily oiled hair. Bulletproof vests over tropical–colored silk shirts. Cocaine and money switched partners. They work outdoors now. The DEA has the rooms wired. A few years ago, some local Colombian paid a half million cash for the key to one of the lockers in the airport. He opened it up, the spring snapped, and the explosion took out nineteen people. That was back when the Italians still thought they could keep narcotics in the family. Wesley had the contract on the Colombian—the other eighteen bodies were on the house. The federales are still looking for the terrorist organization responsible.
Julio was playing it like Wesley was just a shooter, but he knew better. And he knew I knew.
I ran it down for Max. He already had most of it, from watching Julio. The Mongolian made the sign of a man aiming a rifle. Pulled his hand away from the trigger, knife–edged it, and chopped at his own neck. Pointed to my watch. Let's take him out tonight.
I shook my head no.
His hands asked why.
I shook my head again, pointed at my watch. Not now. Wait. I held my palm over my eyes like I was shielding them from the sun, turned my head from side to side. Something else around.
I couldn't say what.
85
WE CROSSED the Triboro from the Queens side. Worked our way to the junkyard. Hours yet until we had to meet Wesley—I wasn't going to wait in a bar.
I shoved a cassette into the tape player, jamming the bass as high as it would go for Max. He put his fingertips on the speaker on his side of the car.
Judy Henske. "High Flying Bird." And "God Bless the Child." I wondered if they let torch singers into heaven—I couldn't see Henske in a choir.
Sonny Boy Williamson. "T.B. Blues."
The sky looks different from the gutter.
Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys. I'd forgotten he was on the tape. Just a bar singer's voice, but his dark–side poetry was diamonds shining through blood. The Texas Tower song—Kinky's ode to America's favorite sniper, Charles Whitman.
Maybe the Mole knew.
86
TERRY LET us in, leading us through the dog pack. Simba was sitting by himself a few feet from the Mole's bunker. His eyes ignored me, tracking Max. Calm, inside himself. Max stepped to the side, hands flowing to a clasp just below his waist. He bowed to the beast. Not in deference—a warrior on another's ground. Simba flashed a lupine grin and strolled off into the darkness.
We went down into the bunker. The Mole was in his chair, lap covered by an artist's pad. The page was covered with sketches of machinery, formulas and equations scrawled from corner to corner. He grunted a greeting, not looking up.
"Would you like some tea?" Terry asked me, making the sign of a cup to the lips for Max. The warrior nodded his head gravely. "You got any ginger ale?" I asked. The kid gave me a look like the Mole does sometimes. Michelle would be proud of him.
We sipped our drinks. The Mole ignored us. Finally, he dumped his calculations on the floor. Terry was waiting with a cup of tea. The Mole nodded his head absently.
"What're you working on?" I asked.
"A computer retrovirus."
"What?"
"Computer virus…you reach a certain point and it eats the data, yes?"
"Okay." I knew what he meant. Pedophiles are really into computers, meticulously recording each victim. They have crash–codes built in. The cops try to access the disc and the whole thing goes down.
"There's a way to use the surge–suppressor…part of the line conditioner…what they plug in to hold the data if there's a power outage…you could use that to eat the virus instead of the data."
"I don't…"
"Another module. It goes in the line conditioner. Then you drop the power, just a little bit, and the suppressor kicks in, finds the virus, and eats it. And gets out without a trace."
"How long would it take?"
The Mole snapped his fingers. "A thousandth of that."
"Damn."
"I'm still working on it. It's not ready."
I lit a cigarette, leaving the pack on the table in case Terry wanted one. He took out his own—I guess they weren't expecting Michelle.
"Mole, you know anything about tumors?"
"What kind?"
"Brain tumors?"
"Yes."
"Could a tumor make a man kill?"
"It's not so simple," he said. Annoyed at having to explain. "It could make a man mad. Irrational. It couldn't make a man different from what he is… just what he does, you understand?"
He watched my face, got his answer. Went on. "Tumor, it's a growth. Different parts of the brain control different functions. A tumor gets in the way. Changes things. Behavior is one of those things."
"Mole, you know Wesley?"
"Only what people say."
"He kills people. That's what he does. I've known him since we were kids. He doesn't have…feelings. You understand? He told me once, you want to kill a man sleeping in a house, you don't go in after him, you set fire to the house. Everybody dies. Makes it hard on the cops. The more bodies, the more motives. You can't be born like that, right?"
"Everybody's born like that."
"What?"
"Everybody. Humans are born into the world screaming for what they want. They feel their own feelings. They have no pack instincts, like dogs. A baby is a monster."
"So a baby raised by wolves, it would be a wolf?"
"It would be a man who behaves like a wolf."
I dragged on my smoke. I could never keep the Mole talking for long. Terry was watching, focused. Maybe the Mole wasn't talking to me.
"Wesley was always like that," I told him. "He never cried, never laughed. He has no fear in him. Nothing in him at all."
"That's not what you said at first," the Mole replied, his eyes impossible to read through the thick smudged lenses of his glasses. "Babies have all those things. Babies learn to feel past their own feelings—that's what we teach them."
"Psychology…"
"This isn't psychology. Not a soft science. Animals adapt or they die. That is a biological law. Sometimes things are left over, vestiges. Like the appendix. We don't need it. Eventually, it will disappear from our bodies. Biology…it's like what Max does…we have to use power, not resist it. Things get left over…we are only here for a short time, so we adapt. Or we die."
"Left over…"
"Sex. That's left over." Terry shifted his posture, dragging on his smoke. "You know the orgasmic curve…different for men than women?"
"You mean it takes them longer to come?"
The Mole's lips tightened primly. "To reach orgasm, yes. Do you know why?"
"The way they're put together…I don't know."
"Herd animals, they mate serially, you understand? There's a fail–safe biological response to every genetic code or the organism dies."
"Come on, Mole. Talk English."
Another annoyed look. "A herd of elk. Mating season. The bucks fight it out. And the winner gets to mate with the entire crop of females, right? That's the genetic code. So the strongest, most
powerful stud mates with the females and the babies have the best DNA."
"Yeah…"
"What if the strongest male is sterile? What if he has a low sperm count? What happens then?"
I glanced at Max. The Mole hadn't moved his hands once, but the warrior watched as intently as the kid.
The Mole answered his own questions. "The herd dies off. So the fail–safe kicks in. When the females are in season…when they are in heat…the bucks smell it and they start to fight. The winning buck mates with a female, he discharges his sperm, then he moves off to wait for his power to recharge. But the female, she is still in heat. While the winning buck mates with another, one of the other bucks, one of the losers in the fight, he mounts her too. They all do that. If the first discharge of sperm is potent, the genes from the strongest buck make a baby. But if it isn't, the next one…or the one after that…takes. And they have babies. The strongest babies survive, and the pack lives on. Understand?"
"Okay, but…"
"If the females reached orgasm faster than the males, they would pull away. Animals don't commit rape—the females must be willing. The mating wouldn't be completed. The orgasmic curve is longer. Much longer. Long enough for the first buck, long enough for the bucks to follow."
"That's why women take longer to…"
"Yes."
"So one day they'll get off as quick as we do?"
Something less than a smile ghosted on the Mole's lips. "Yes. In another half million years or so. You won't be around to see it."
I lit another smoke. Thinking about it. How Mercy said money was her lubricant. "Wesley…he adapted?"
"To something. I don't know what."
"How do you know…that he adapted?"
"He has many enemies. And he isn't dead."
87
THE PLYMOUTH pussyfooted its way through the maze of twisted little roads. I pulled to the side. Max's door opened. The interior light didn't come on. He vanished.
I parked where I had the last time. Got out nice and slow.
"Go ahead and light your smoke." A voice behind me.
I felt him next to me. Turned to look. His hands weren't empty this time.
"Tell the Chinaman to come out. Listen to my voice. I'm telling you the truth, Burke. You don't call him out, I'll waste you right here. Whatever happens, you're dead."
If this was the movies, I'd have heard the sound of the Uzi being cocked. This was Wesley—I knew it already was. They say Wesley files the safety off his guns. I pulled the white handkerchief out of my coat sleeve. Waved it high above my head in a circle, stopped the circle right in front of me. Max was coming whether Wesley killed me or not—this way there'd be two of us. Maybe…?
Wesley was on my right, the Uzi in my rib cage. Max came forward, making enough noise so we'd hear him. He kept walking. A lumbering, thug's walk, giving no hint of the speed and grace in the thick body. A locomotive that makes its own tracks. He stopped ten feet away, right in front of us.
"Close enough," Wesley said.
I held a palm out to Max to keep him where he was. The Mongolian dropped his left shoulder a fraction. If he went, he'd go to Wesley's left. I pushed my weight against the stubby barrel of the machine gun, ready to lock my elbow over it, hug my death close to me if it came. Wesley was right. Close enough. For Max. I'd go first, but Wesley would be right behind me.
"You wanted to talk?" I asked the monster.
"You think I didn't know the Chinaman was here last time?"
"I didn't know myself."
"I know. That's why you got to walk away. But you knew this time."
"Okay."
"Max the Silent, right? That's him?"
"That's him."
"Looks like a real bone–breaker."
"He's here for me, not you."
"I know. Tell him I got a gun on you."
"He knows."
"So why'd he come out?"
"He's my brother."
"Yeah. That's nice. I had a brother too."
"I never knew that. Where is he?"
"Dead."
Like you, I thought, taking the last puff of my cigarette, tossing it away. "What d'you want, Wesley?"
"You like the job on Sutton Place?"
"Why'd you do it?"
"They owe me money."
"I know. I met with one of them earlier tonight. They want you bad. They're going to get word out that they'll pay. They want me to deliver the cash."
"And blow me up?"
"No. They want you alive."
"That's the way I figured it. It takes the heat off."
"Off?!"
"Sure, off. They could have paid me. Like they should've. When I hit the first guy, they got scared. So they put out the word. Hit Wesley, right? Any asshole with a gun could do it, he got close enough. Now it's different. They're spooked. I made shit of the don—fucked him where he breathes right in front of everybody. They had an open contract out on me before. Now it's canceled, right? Now it's personal."
"There's more.
"What?"
"They think it was you who did the job in the Chelsea playground. They had the whole thing wired—one of the guys working with Mortay, he was theirs. He's the guy who went down in the playground. Sniper fire from the roof. They dropped a dime on me to put on the pressure."
"The cops think it was me on the roof too?"
"Probably do, by now."
"We both know it wasn't. So you got a sniper in your stable too."
"He was a loaner. From a friend. I can't use him again."
"Okay. They won't dime you for the Sutton Place thing. It won't fly."
"How d'you know?"
"I dress in a nice suit, nice trench coat. Eight–hundred–dollar brief–case, Rolex, diamond ring. I'm a lawyer, right? I tell the doorman I got a package for Mrs. Swanson in 21A. From Mr. Torenelli. He makes the call, I go up. No problem. Maid's day off. I know. Ring the bell, she answers it herself. Starts right in on me. 'I told my father I didn't want to have anything to do with his…' I cut her off, tell her I just got a couple of papers in my briefcase for her to sign and I'm out of there. She treats me like a servant, turns her back on me. I close the door behind her, follow her to the living room. Open the briefcase. She's still yakking at me when I hook her in the stomach with a set of brass knuckles. She's out—can't get a breath. Anesthetic nose plugs and she goes right to sleep. I take off my clothes, lay them in the briefcase. Talcum powder on my hands, surgeon's gloves. Carry her to the bedroom. Piano wire until she's spread out. I find a chopping block and a set of those Ginsu knives in the kitchen. All those rich assholes have fancy kitchens. I put the block under her neck, pull her hair back, and take the head off. Half a dozen shots is all it took. Blood spurts out all over the back wall. I stick the head into her cunt, facing out. Say hello to her husband when he comes home. I write the number two on the wall in her blood. That's the polygraph key the cops'll use when freaks start confessing. I take a shower. Pop open the drain. Pour three bottles of that Liquid Plumber stuff down, leave the hot–water tap on. I get dressed, put everything back in the briefcase. I go downstairs, tell the doorman the package is too big to lug through the lobby. Mrs. Swanson wants it through she service entrance. Wants him to handle it personally, right? Slip him a pair of twenties. I'll drive around into the back alley with the box, he'll meet me there, take it up to her. I drive out back. He opens the door. I put three rounds into him. Pop, pop, pop. Drive away. The papers don't have that body either. But the cops, they know they ain't looking for a maniac. They ain't looking for an amateur like you either. They know."
His voice wasn't chilly, just flat. Not quite bored.
"Why?" I asked.
"I was going to spook them. Kill a few the same way. Make 'em think a freak was after their women. Get them all together in one place to figure out what to do. And blow the place up. But this is quicker."
"They got your message."
He wasn't listening. "I was going to beat off o
nto the body but with that DNA fingerprinting they use now…"
"Cut it out, Wesley. You don't give a fuck about blood types, or fingerprints either. They drop you for this, you're not going to jail….You just couldn't do it."
"Couldn't do what?"
"Beat off on a dead body. I came up with you, remember? I know what you do for a living, but you're still a man."
"I'm a bomb," the monster said. "I'm tired of this place. When I check out, you'll hear the sound."
My body was rigid with the strain. He wasn't going to pull the trigger. I stepped away from him, carefully.
"Yeah, go ahead," he said. "I was going to waste you, I'd take the Chinaman first. Always take the hard man first. That's the rules."
"Look…"
"You're not a hard man, Burke. Maybe you was once, but you let things get in the way. There's a way out of this. For you, not for me. I don't care. I'm tired. I got to do Train first. I took the money. And the don. Then I'm gone."
"What's my way out? What d'you want from me?"
"You're the link. Like I knew you'd be, remember I told you? I need a cop."
"What?"
"A big cop. High–ranker. The don's gone to ground. I'll never find him. The cops and the mob, they're all in the same bed. You find out where he's at, I'll do the rest."
"I don't know any top cops."
"You know how to do things. Talk to people, work around. I can't do that. Nobody knows my face, but they can feel me coming."
Survivors can, I thought.
"They'll want to set up a meet, tell me I'm getting my money", he said. "I want my money, right? It's going to take a little bit of time. Use it. When I finish my work, everybody's happy…the cops'll have their bodies and you'll be off the hook."
"You can't hit them all. They'll always come for you."
"No. I'm going to kill their seeds. And then I'm going where they can't come after me."
"The Program? You can't…"
His voice didn't change. You can't insult a monster. "The Witness Protection Program? I already hit two guys that was in the Program. I told you, I'm tired. Don't worry about it."
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