"What's all this about?" I asked her.
"What?"
"Breaking in here, busting up the place, tearing through my things."
"I didn't break in here—I have a key."
"Who gave you…? Ah, never mind. What about the other stuff?"
"I was angry. You stood me up. People don't do that."
"I was there. At two, like you said. You never showed."
"Why didn't you wait?"
"For what?"
"People do what I tell them," she said, bending over and picking up the riding crop. She tossed it on the bed, turned to me. "They love to do what I tell them. You think you're something? You're nothing, Mr. Caretaker. I know your secrets."
"Okay."
"Okay? That's it? Okay? I know why you're here. I know what you want."
"Sure."
"Don't be slick—you don't have the looks for it. I could save you a lot of time, point you straight. That's not your secret—that's mine. You want it?"
"Maybe."
"People wait for me, I told you. You can wait too. You know how it works—you want something, you have to pay, yes?"
"How much?"
"A lot. Not money. I don't need money. You want to pay, you have to play. Play with me, get it?"
"No."
She walked over to the bureau, rummaged around, like she knew what would be in there. Came up with a fat white hurricane candle. She held it out to me.
"Light this," she said, her voice rough–edged, insistent.
I cracked a wooden match, held it to the wick. Her hand was steady. When the candle flickered into life, she went back to the bureau, held it in one hand over her head as she swept everything onto the floor with the other. She planted the candle, stepped back, watched the flame in the mirror over the bureau, adjusted it until she was satisfied.
"Go turn out the lights," she said, still giving orders. "Do it now.
I stepped back, hit the switch, still watching her.
The black dress had a wide zipper all the way down the front, anchored with a silver pull–ring the size of a half–dollar between her breasts. It made a metal–singing sound as she pulled it down. She shrugged her shoulders and the dress fell away. Then she stood facing me, hands on hips. Her breasts were bare. A humming sound came off her, not from her mouth. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband to the thong, pulled it slowly over her hips. When she had it worked down to just above her knees, she wiggled her legs and it dropped to her ankles. She stepped out of the little piece of black silk, hooked the toe of a blue spike heel into the pile and kicked the thong over in my direction. I felt it brush against my feet but I never dropped my eyes from her face.
She turned her back to me. Put one knee on the bed, looked over her shoulder. Climbed the rest of the way onto the bed, on her hands and knees, facing away from me.
"You want to play now?" she whispered.
I took out a cigarette. Walked over to the candle, got a light. I took a deep drag, put the cigarette on the dresser top. Her butt looked like a piece of white marble, the dark stockings setting it off like a centerpiece. The spikes of her heels were pointed back at me.
I took off my clothes, watching, breathing through my nose, something telling me I needed to keep a control card in my deck.
I hung my clothes over the back of a straight chair. Stepped to her. I put one hand on her hip, touched her deep with the other. She was wet. I entered her slowly. She snapped her hips to the side, throwing me out.
"Kiss first," she said, not turning around.
I put my hands on her shoulders to pull her around. She locked her arms rigid, resisting.
"Kiss my ass," she ordered. "Kiss it good."
I stepped back. "Not this year," I told her. Calm, not arguing.
"Make you mad?" she challenged. "Here!" handing me the riding crop, still not turning around.
I tossed it onto the floor, still watching her. The marble glistened in the candlelight.
I went back over to the bureau. Took another drag from my cigarette. She didn't move.
A piece of time passed. I walked back to her, put one hand on each of her cheeks, stroked with my thumbs.
"No!" she snapped. "Kiss it or whip it, that's all there you get. I don't do vanilla sex."
I stepped back again. Finished the smoke. Ground it out on the dresser top.
"Well?" she demanded, her voice thick.
"I don't like the choices," I told her.
She looked over her shoulder, still on her hands and knees. "It looks like you do," she whispered.
"That's my body," I said. "Not me.
She dropped her face to the sheet, arched her back. Her dark sex bloomed in the candlelight, framed in marble. "Last chance," she whispered. Sugar threats.
I shook my head. It was as though she could see it without looking. She backed toward me, backed all the way off the bed. Stood up. Walked over, put the dress on like it was a coat, bent at the waist and zipped it up. Snuffed out the candle with two fingers and stalked out to the front room.
I followed her. She was pulling on the long coat. I grabbed her from behind. She ground her hips into my crotch. I slipped my hands into the side pockets of the coat. Pulled out a bunch of keys, stepped back. The keys were all anchored to a piece of wood in the shape of a tiny cane. I rifled through the keys, picked out the one to the apartment, pulled it off the ring. She turned to face me. I handed her the rest of the keys. She held the keys so the tiny cane dangled.
"You know what this is?"
"No."
"It's birch. Get the idea?"
"Yeah."
"You think so? Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime. When you're ready."
She walked out, leaving the door open. I stood in the doorway, watching her walk to her car. It started up, moved off, no headlights.
I walked back through the wreckage to the back room, turning on the lights. Her black silk thong was on the floor of the bedroom. I picked it up.
It smelled like handcuffs.
I got dressed, putting rich–bitch games out of my mind, centering on the job. I crossed the yard back to the big house. A burglar's dream—I had a key, and the cops wouldn't stop even if they saw lights on. I slipped on a pair of surgeon's gloves—all I'd need to slice this piece of cake.
It had to be her room. Whatever she was now, Cherry was a working–class girl—she'd need to keep the good stuff close. I worked the teakwood chest of drawers first, moving from the bottom up the way I'd been taught. It saves time—that way you don't have to close one drawer before you move on to the next. Nothing. I pulled out each drawer completely, checked for something taped underneath. A blank. I couldn't find an inset panel anywhere. Tapped the wood frame—it rang solid.
I went over the carpet section by section. It was seamless, a double–thick pad underneath. The nightstand by the bed supported an ice blue telephone in some free–form futuristic shape and a black clock with green hands, no numbers. The hands pointed to 4:45. In the base of the clock was a window with a digital readout—7:45. I let it roll around in my head, kept working.
Inside the nightstand I got lucky. A thick stack of bills, all hundreds, neatly banded. I quick–counted it—ten large. The bills looked Treasury–fresh, but the serial numbers were random. Toward the back of the little drawer, a black leather address book. I tossed it on the bed, kept looking.
I took the mattress off the bed. Nobody home. The box spring was next. Another blank. I checked the headboard for a compartment, using my pencil flash to spot a seam. It was made from the same teak as the dresser, and just as solid.
Only one picture on the wall. A sepia–toned photograph of a woman, her back to the camera. She was dressed in a dark Victorian suit, some kind of velvet it looked like, with a long skirt and long sleeves. Her hands were clasped in front of her, head slightly bowed. I took it off the wall, hoping for a safe. The paint was undisturbed— whoever cleaned the joint removed the picture every time they dusted.
Nothing left but the closet. I did the footwear first. She had everything from thigh–high boots to running shoes, but they were all empty. Then I went through the clothes, piece by piece. Found a string of pearls in one coat pocket, a pair of used theater tickets in another. Tissues, a blue chiffon scarf, a lipstick–size spray atomizer. I pointed it away from me, pressed the tiny button. Some kind of citrus perfume.
Against the back wall, I found a black silk cape with an attached hood. The lining was red. In a side pocket, a gray business card. Normal size, but twice the weight. In steel blue copperplate script: "Rector's." And a phone number. I put it on the bed next to the address book.
There was no lock on the bedroom door. I walked quickly through the rest of the floor. No locks anywhere. It wasn't doors that covered that house's secrets.
Back in Cherry's bedroom, I opened the address book. Nearly every page was filled with distinctively shaded block letters. The ink was a dark blue—looked like a fountain pen. I found the culprit in the nightstand drawer, a fat black Mont Blanc.
None of the names meant anything to me at first. I took it page by page. Nothing under "Burke." "Fancy" was under "F," but the phone number wasn't the same as she'd written on her After Dark card. Not quite the same.
Page by page. I came to a strange listing. "MERC" is all it said. I looked at the number. Looked at it again. It was the pay phone that
rings in Mama's restaurant, written backwards. A man for hire, that's what I must have seemed like to her back in England a lifetime ago. Some people grow, some just age.
I turned back to the page with Fancy's number. Read it backwards. It matched her card.
Was the code that simple? I found a listing for Rector's. Compared it to the card. It didn't match, backwards or forwards.
I went over to the control panel in her closet. Pushed buttons at random. String music came from the speaker again. Not the longhair stuff this time—Santo and Johnny's "Sleepwalk"—'50s steel guitar spooling softly strange in that lush room.
I laid down on her bed, staring at the ceiling, surprised not to find a mirror. Glanced over at the clock again. 5:19 on the dial, 8:19 on the digital. Three hours' difference.
Where the hell would that be?
I reached for the phone. Dialed the number on the card I'd found in the cape. A woman's voice answered, pleasant but loaded with the promise of something harder: "Rector's."
I hung up. Dialed the number under that name in her address book. A recorded message: "Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Check the number and…"
I hung up on that one too. It's the message Ma Bell sends when the exchange isn't local.
I checked the book again. No area code. Maybe she didn't use them at all. But…no, she had a lot of them—Chicago, L.A., Houston— even some foreign ones.
I closed my eyes. What's your secret, bitch? I asked her.
When I opened my eyes, the clock said 5:51. A long time to be out. I got up, put everything back the way it was. The closet speaker was playing something slithery…something I didn't recognize.
I went back to the bed, picked up the book, started to punch the number she had listed for Rector's into the control panel. Four buttons into the sequence I heard a sliding noise. I looked in its direction. A panel was opening in the seamless pink marble of the bathroom tile over the tub.
I went over, took a close look, not touching anything. I've been trained by the best—if you don't figure out how to close the wound, the autopsy will be too easy. I pushed the buttons again, in the same order. I heard the faint sound of an electrical motor, but the panel stayed open.
Okay. I tried it in reverse, last digit first. The panel slid back, closing with a barely audible click. From where I stood, I couldn't see where it had opened. You don't get craftsmanship like that from a local handyman—it had to be the work of the original architect.
Even up close, I couldn't find the seam. The white veins in the pink marble pulled my eyes into a swirling pattern, the recessed lighting bouncing off the slick surface blurred my eyes. Like the random stripes of a herd of zebra, making the lions dizzy, distracting the hunters from the target.
A four–digit code. Ten thousand chances to hit it by luck—no chance at all. I punched the Open Sesame again, one slow button at a time. The panel was about six inches wide. Inside was painted a flat black, a matte finish that would eat light, no reflection.
I pulled a thick white towel from a standing brass rack, laid it down in the tub in case something spilled. I started to reach my gloved hand inside the compartment when I remembered this was too elaborate a setup for a rich woman to hide her pearls. And remembered where Cherry came from, what she'd know.
I walked downstairs, looking around. What I really wanted was a pair of needlenose pliers, but the kitchen didn't have anything like a tool kit. Finally, I settled on a pair of long barbecue tongs, heavy steel with a rosewood handle.
Back upstairs, I used my pencil flash to check out the inside of the compartment. I could see some plastic cassettes, a padded jewelry box, and what looked like a black drawstring pouch. I wasn't worried about a burglar alarm—if I was right, the cops were the last thing Cherry would want if somebody got this far. I probed the air space inside the compartment with the tongs, testing.
Nothing happened.
I extended the tongs toward the pouch again, as delicate as plucking a butterfly off a flower. I closed the tongs slowly, standing well back. I felt the tips touch something and there was a sharp clang! It almost knocked the tongs from my hand. I pulled them back, used the pencil flash. A curved metal wand hung just over the pouch, still vibrating, three separate hooked tips pinpointing the light. An L–shaped lever dangled from the far corner of the compartment. I pushed it back toward the wall with the tongs. Watched as the wand retreated. Whatever it was, it could be reset.
The tips of the wand looked surgical. I could guess what she had painted on them—curare lasts a hell of a long time, but it only takes a few seconds to do its job. I shoved the lever back to disable the wand. Then I worked the stuff out of the compartment like I was defusing a bomb, working front to back. My hands were calm, but my knees were locked against the trembling. I dropped each piece lightly on the heavy towel in the same position it was inside the compartment.
Three VHS videocassettes. Blackmail maybe?
Seven audiotapes, premium–grade metal, ninety minutes each. The blackmail scenario looked better than ever.
A round disk I didn't recognize.
A pair of three–and–a–half–inch computer diskettes, Teflon coated, one red, one blue.
A mini–cassette backup computer tape.
Business records, maybe? Of somebody else's business? Had to be some pretty hot data to be this well protected. Industrial espionage?
No matter what all the stuff was, there was no way I could tell just by looking.
But then I found the black velvet pouch.
I gently pulled the drawstring, tipped the pouch upside down. Fire inside: red, white, green. Gems. Big ones, all faceted. And some smooth black stones.
I glanced over at the clock. 6:39. Enough.
I took one of each of the gems, one of each of the cassettes, both diskettes. Put everything else back in reverse order. If you took a quick look inside, it would look pretty close to normal. I pushed the lever home, watched the poison wand disappear, heard it snap into place. Then I went back to the control panel, pushed the buttons, and made the compartment disappear.
I carefully wrapped the gems in a piece of dark blue felt I carry with me for emergencies. The loot disappeared into the pockets of my jacket. The towel went back on the rack. I pulled off the surgeon's gloves and headed downstairs.
It only took me a few minutes to lock the stuff in the false bottom of the Plymouth's truck, right next to the fuel cell. I never went back to the upstairs apartment.
I was getting a traffic report from the all–news station by 7:08, heading for home base.
As so
on as I crossed the bridge into Manhattan, I found a pay phone and started to work. Left messages for Michelle and the Prof. Called Mama, told her I'd be on my way before nightfall.
By eight, I was in my office, sacked out on the couch.
It was almost three in the afternoon as I worked the Plymouth through the maze of Chinatown's back streets. Clarence's immaculate BRG Rover was parked in the alley behind Mama's.
They were in my booth. The Prof had three playing cards in front of him, folded lengthwise, face down, showing Clarence the finer points of three–card monte. Mama was at her cash register. The joint had the usual number of customers—none.
I sat down in my booth, ignoring the questions in the Prof's eyes. Mama strolled over just as I was pulling the blue felt from my pocket. She nodded, snapped something in Cantonese to one of the hovering waiters, and sat down.
The blue felt sat between us on the table—Mama made no move to touch it. In a couple of minutes, the waiter came back. He cleared the table, wiped it down, spread a brilliant white bolt of heavy cloth over the top. Then he placed a black metal cube near Mama's left hand, spread a red silk square next to her right. Mama bowed her head, fingertips together, waiting. The waiter opened the top of the black metal cube, telescoped a long stem with a tiny quartz halogen light at the tip. He pressed a button on the side of the cube and a circle of pure light showed on the tabletop. On the red silk square, he carefully assembled a jeweler's loupe and several different–size tweezers. From one of his apron pockets, he took a miniature scale with an electronic dial. He placed it at the far corner of the table and stepped back.
Mama raised her head, opened her eyes. Nodded an okay at me. I unwrapped the gems. Mama plucked the diamond first, placed it on the table in front of her. Then she screwed the loupe into her right eye, picked up the gem with a pair of tweezers and took a look.
Nobody spoke.
Mama turned the gem back and forth with the tweezers, her fingers precision machinery.
"You remember what I teach you about diamonds? Five C?"
"Sure," I told her, remembering the lesson from so many years ago, when I came back from Africa and told Mama about new smuggling opportunities. Four C was the world standard: color, clarity, cut and carat. The last C was Mama's own—cash.
Down in the Zero Page 6