Pansy poked her nose over the desktop, trying to see what I was doing. I told her to go to her place. She ignored me. Snarled—a higher pitch than I'd heard before.
I still didn't want to touch it.
100
There's places even zombies won't go. I walked to the station at Chambers Street, slipped into the underground. Dropped a token into the slot. The Exit door was propped open—most of the citizens just walked through without paying. Social protest, like the yuppies who throw Israeli shekels into the Exact Change baskets on the highway. Sure.
It didn't look like rain, but I carried a little red umbrella—the kind you can compress to baton size. A real piece of junk—so cheap that one of the ribs had worked itself loose—one pull and it would come right out in my hand. The tip was real sharp.
At West Fourth, I changed to the F train. Got a seat next to an old man who looked like he snorted interferon—pinch–faced, thinning hair nicely parted at the back to reveal dime–sized dandruff flakes. He opened a copy of the Times, spreading it across my face. His hands were liver–spotted, nails long and yellowing, curving at the tips. He smelled like his life.
The train picked up speed, rocking on the rusty tracks, overloaded with human cargo, paradise for the rubbers and the gropers. And the boys who carried box cutters to slice wallets free of clothing. If the air conditioning was on, it never had a chance.
The old man slammed a sharp elbow into my chest, shoving for more room, making high–pitched grunting noises, rattling his newspaper, flakes flying off his skull like greasy snow.
A good–sized Puerto Rican woman got on at Thirty–fourth, a plastic shopping bag from a drugstore chain in one hand, using it as a purse. She was wearing a white uniform of some kind, white flats with thick soles, white stockings. Coming from work. She worked her way over to a pole in the subway car, leaned against it gratefully.
I saw my chance.
Caught her eye, rose to my feet, my back to the rest of the humans, bowing slightly, gesturing with my hand like an usher showing a customer to her seat. There was maybe eighteen inches of seat showing—she dropped into it just as the vicious old man slid over to close the gap. She pancaked him like he was Play–Doh—the Times went flying, a thin shriek came out of his mouth. After that, they fought in silence.
My money was on the right horse. The old man finally extricated himself, stumbled off to another part of the subway car, reeking hate.
The Surrogate Ninja Body Slam—it doesn't always work, but when it does, it's a thing of beauty.
101
I got off the train at Rockefeller Center, stepped out and walked back along Sixth to Forty–second. It wouldn't be dark for hours, but clots of teenagers were already on patrol. "Driving the Deuce," they call it, cruising Times Square, eyes lusting into the windows full of things: electronic gear, overdose jewelry, flashy clothes, battery–powered body parts. Down here, the only culture is Cargo Cult.
I had more pieces to put together before I brought Wolfe to meet Luke. The library had signs all around—the Campaign to Combat Illiteracy.
They should have asked me to be a consultant. I learned to read, really read, in prison. The Prof told me you could steal more money with a briefcase than with a pistol. I know that's true—but I never seem to get it right.
When I came back outside, it was just getting dark. I called Bonita at the place she works—told her I'd come by later, take her home.
102
Almost four in the morning when I stepped out of Bonita's building. Lighter, not happier. She'd made sweet little come–noises in her bed, following the script.
I lit a cigarette to scan the street, feeling the night shift. I'm not usually a target, but predators work the same way lonely losers do in singles bars—the closer it gets to quitting time, the more desperate they are to make a connection.
Almost to my car when a van prowled up on my right. I stepped behind the fender of a parked car, reaching inside my jacket when I saw what the van was tracking…a woman in a red dress slit up one side, walking unsteadily, like she was drunk. A street snatch is high–risk—maybe the van held a pack of gambling beasts, out to gang–rape Lady Luck. Or maybe I spent too much time on the dark side, manipulated by memories.
"Linda! Wait for me!" I yelled, loud enough to make her turn around.
The van took off.
103
Still wasn't tired when I got back to the office. I gave Pansy a couple of pints of chocolate chip ice cream I'd picked up at an all–night deli, smoked a cigarette, read through Michelle's letters again.
I flicked the channels on the black&white set, ignoring Pansy's annoyance when I couldn't find any pro wrestling. Finally settled for Mayberry, R.F.D. Fell asleep wishing Andy Griffith had been the Sheriff last time I'd stuck up a liquor store.
104
In the morning, I thought it through again. Stepping back, watching the edges. I had the bag. Wolfe had agreed to the meeting. It didn't feel dangerous to me. I could square it all up, get out, go back to taking off Carlos.
Time to roll, right? Get on with it.
Something holding me back.
Maybe I wasn't scared enough, yet.
105
At Mama's, waiting for Teresa. After my soup, Luke brought out a deck of cards, asked me if I wanted to play.
"What do you know how to play, kid?"
"Gin. Max taught me."
We played a few hands. Played a few more before I realized the little bastard was no amateur.
"How many cards left outside your hand?" I asked him.
"Twenty–six," he said, guilelessly.
"Where are they?"
"You have ten, there's one up, so there's fifteen in the deck."
"What are the cards, Luke?"
"If I tell you, then you'll know what's in my hand, kind of."
"Yeah. Like you kind of know what's in mine, right?"
"Right!" He smiled brightly.
"So you always beat Max?"
"No. Sometimes, it doesn't matter what you know. Some of it's just luck."
"Un–huh. You like it better when it's not luck?"
"Yes. Mama's going to teach me another game. Blackjack."
Mama loomed over my shoulder, putting her finger to her lips, smiling indulgently at her prize pupil. "Luke, remember what Mama tell you…blackjack a secret, yes?"
"I don't like secrets," the boy said, his voice dropping a register, eyes flickering.
"It's okay, Luke," I said, shooting a warning look at Mama. "There's no secrets here. Nobody's going to give you secrets. Mama was only playing."
"Playing?"
"Yeah. Like joking. Understand?"
His eyes flickered again. "Can I have some duck, Mama?"
Mama only serves duck about once a week—says it's a real pain to prepare properly.
"Sure, baby. Maybe some prawns too?"
"Yes!"
"Good baby," Mama said, reaching over to muss his hair.
106
While Teresa was downstairs with Luke, Max came in. Sat across from me, watching.
The phone rang in the back. Mama came to the table. "For you," she said. "Sunny man."
"It's me," I said, picking up the receiver.
"It is me too, mahn. With some news for you. I spoke to those people. Tomorrow night, you know Corona?"
"Yes."
"On Astoria Boulevard, city side of Ninety–fourth, a few blocks down, you will see an old drive–in. Hamburger joint, abandoned now. Drive there, midnight. They will meet you, take you to her."
"Okay."
"You have her property, mahn?"
"Yes."
"Sure. You understand."
"Can I bring a friend?"
"You are, mahn. Clarence will meet you there too."
"Clarence is afraid of those people."
"Everyone is, mahn."
107
I explained it all to Max. Slowly. Usually, he gets things as sharp as anyone who hears,
but he was playing it dumb. Like he does when he doesn't like what I'm saying. He kept trying to deal himself in. I kept shaking my head.
Mama came back, sat down with us, a paper bag in her hands.
"Bonds all gone," she said.
"That was damn fast—you score ten points?"
"Not all. Three hundred for us."
"Elroy gets a hundred, Mama. But it's still a giant hit."
Mama bowed. Put the money on the table, shuffled it like a casino dealer, spun it into piles. Three stacks, a hundred grand in each. Brushed one to the side, Elroy's money. I counted off five grand, handed it to Max. He gets ten points for deliveries. That's what he does, deliveries. Guaranteed. I made the signs for Elroy. Max's thin lips curled—he clapped his first two fingers hard against his thumb, like jaws snapping. I knew what he meant: yak yak yak. He pointed at me, made the sign of driving a car. He'd have to borrow mine to make the delivery. I nodded okay. Then he made the sign of dialing a phone—also my responsibility to tell the maniac Max was on his way. Okay again.
I fanned out the five grand I'd set aside for Max, looking hard at Mama. She knew the rules—she was just as responsible for the money getting back to Elroy as I was. Besides, she probably clouted the bonds for three–fifty or even four hundred and we both knew it.
Finally, she nodded. "Oh yes, pay fair share, okay?" Handed over five grand of her own.
I took twenty for myself, pushed the rest over to Mama. "For the bank, okay?"
"Okay."
She leafed through her money, still keeping the stacks separate. Counted off a bunch of bills, handed them to Max, making the sign of rocking a baby. "For Flower, yes?" she said, looking at Max, talking to me.
Max bowed his thanks.
Mama smiled. "Fair share, yes?" And counted off some of my money, handed it to Max.
He gravely bowed to me as well.
Mama counted off still more money, looking at me. "For Luke, yes? To pay the woman downstairs."
"Lily's taking care of that, Mama."
Her eyes went agate. "Our house, our family, we pay."
Max dropped his eyes from the challenge, handed over his entire stack of money. Mama took some, handed the rest back. Looted my pile again.
Finally, she smiled. Got up and left.
108
Max wasn't going to lose two in a row, renewing his demands to come along to my meeting. I made the sign for Lily. For Storm, Immaculata, Wolfe. It took a long time. I pounded my fists together, conflict. Pulled them apart. Separation. Then I pointed at Max. Tapped my heart. Locked two hands together. We wouldn't be separated, he and I, okay? His time would come.
Finally, he nodded.
I went into the back to call Elroy.
"It's me," I said by way of greeting.
"Hey, Burke! Is Pansy in heat? I mean, Barko ain't been himself, man. Don't want to pull his load, nothing. He needs his woman, buddy. Give my boy a break."
"Look, fool. I called you about something else. Everything's all set, okay? You'll get what's coming to you real late tonight…maybe two in the morning, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah…You gonna bring Pansy?"
"I'm not coming. I'm sending my brother…and don't say his name on the phone."
"Oh, the Chinaman who don't talk? You sending him? I heard he does deliveries…"
Fucking moron.
"Just calm down, all right? He'll be driving my car. And keep those damn dogs out of his way.
"Sure, sure. But when you gonna…?"
I hung up on him.
109
Eleven–thirty. I made a slow circuit of the empty drive–in at the wheel of the Plymouth. Nothing. Max and I lit cigarettes, smoking in silence. He'd reopened the argument on the way out to Queens, and we'd reached a compromise.
I was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, black tie. Unarmed—not even a knife. Max was dressed in his thin–soled black shoes, baggy white pants, a white T–shirt. A better target if that's what they wanted. He's never weaponless.
The immaculate green Rover pulled in a few minutes later. Clarence killed his lights, got out of the car, lounged against a fender, his body not quite making contact with the metal.
I popped the trunk. Max and I got out, walked around to the back. I took the package in my arms. We walked over to Clarence.
"Clarence, this is my brother, Max the Silent."
Max bowed.
Clarence extended his hand, slim and delicate. Max took it in his bone–crusher of a paw, shook.
"Let's put this in your trunk," I said to Clarence.
His eyes were distressed, but he said nothing. Unlocked the trunk, didn't look as we put the bag inside.
"I heard of you," Clarence said to Max.
Max bowed again.
"He really doesn't talk?" Clarence asked me.
"Not with his mouth," I told him.
A black Chevy Caprice rolled into the lot, followed closely by its twin. A tall, slim black man got out of the passenger seat of the lead car, walked toward us. He was dressed exactly as I was except his tie was string–thin. And he had a tiny red ribbon in his lapel.
"Mr. Burke?" he asked.
"That's me."
"You will come with us, please?"
"Yes."
"And your friends, they will come too?"
"Only one friend," I said, nodding at Clarence. "My brother will be leaving."
"Certainly."
Max closed the gap between him and the messenger, gliding without a sound. He stared at the man's face, eyes slitted, memorizing. He bowed slightly. Moved over to the cars, walking around them front to back, taking it in.
"Would you ask your people to get out of their cars?" I asked politely.
"Certainly," he said again. Walked over to the driver's window of one car, then another. They lined up in the darkness, all dressed alike. Max stared deep into the face of each one, bowed his thanks. Squeezed my shoulder, climbed into the Plymouth, and took off.
"Will you come with us now?" the man asked.
"Yes, I'm ready."
"Very well," he said, gesturing toward the lead car.
"Hold up, mahn," Clarence said, his voice barely under control. "I'm not leaving my ride out here for some thief to steal. I'll just drive right behind you, okay?"
The messenger smiled. "Yes, you and your friend can follow me. You have nothing to fear."
"Do you want your…?" I asked.
"No. You must present the offering to Queen Thana yourself, sir."
I shrugged. Went with Clarence to his car.
110
Clarence followed the Caprice's taillights to Ninety–fourth Street, made a left toward the airport.
"The other one's right behind us," he said.
"Makes sense."
"I don't like this, mahn."
"It's okay. They could have wasted us right in the parking lot, they wanted to. They're not going to do anything."
"You sure, mahn?"
"Yeah."
"So why was the monster–man there? The Silent One. I heard scary things about him."
"In case I turn out to be wrong.
"So what's he gonna do then, mahn—be too late for us.
"It's never too late to get even."
111
The Caprice swept east on Ditmars, turned right on Northern Boulevard, back toward the city.
"You have your pistol?" I asked Clarence.
"Always," he said, whipping it loose.
"Leave it in the car, Clarence. And anything else you got."
"You crazier than they are, mahn. I'm not going in no voodoo house without…"
"Yeah, you are. They're going to search you anyway, what's the point? It's too late now—we trust them or we don't."
"I don't, mahn."
"Then stay in the car."
"Look…"
"You look, Clarence. This is my play, my way."
He glared through the windshield. Finally, he slipped the pistol under the front seat. Pull
ed out a couple of spare clips, his straight razor, the leather–covered sap.
"That's all I got, mahn."
We turned left into a short block. A drug supermarket: dealers sitting in parked cars, working the traffic crawl. Cars with Connecticut plates, Jersey plates. Flames licked from a 55–gallon oil drum, winos warming their hands. A man staggered out of the doorway of an abandoned building—why pay rent when you re running a crack house? If citizens lived on that block, they were indoors.
Daylight wouldn't be any better.
A three–story wood frame house stood squarely between two others. A centerpiece, white with black trim. The surrounding houses were standing open to the night, in the process of being rebuilt. The Caprice pulled into a driveway, drove around to the back. We followed, the trail car behind us.
We stepped out. I looked around as Clarence opened the trunk. High wood fence, the planks nailed solidly together. Chicken coop in one corner, a small black–and–white goat tethered. A two–car garage, doors closed.
I took the package in my arms again. Car doors slammed. The others got out. The messenger came over to us.
"Will you follow me, please?"
112
The back door opened into what had probably been a kitchen once. We followed the messenger through an entranceway into a long rectangular room. Neatly dressed men and women crowded the place. Sober clothing, spots of color on the women—a small red feather in a hat, a white scarf. The front door had a steel gate behind it.
"This way," the man said.
Down the stairs, to a basement. Under the ground, under the surface. In the blackness, I wished for Sheba. Sharp, clean smell, like cloves cooking, everything whitewashed.
At the bottom of the stairs, against the far wall, a woman. Sitting in a huge chair of dark, oiled wood, the back fanning into a seashell shape behind her. She was wrapped in red silk, loose around her shoulders, falling into a natural V at her breasts. Long dark hair, coffee–with–cream skin, dark red lips.
Sacrifice Page 15
