The old warrior’s eyes were milky with age. A couple of teeth were missing. I wouldn’t have taken him on with a machine gun.
Max climbed out. He never went through any kind of greeting ceremony with the dogs. They never seemed to care.
Terry stashed the Honda, came back with the topless Jeep they use as a jitney. Max and I climbed on. After a moment’s hesitation, Simba jumped up there with us.
We rode through the moonscape, Terry piloting the Jeep around the hidden obstacles set up to slow down anyone visiting without permission. Compound fractures will do that.
“You drive like a pro,” I complimented him. “Your dad teach you?”
“Right!” he joked. “Mom said she’d murder him if he even tried. No, it was Clarence. And my license—it’s a hundred percent legit, Burke. I passed the test and everything.”
The clearing was under a canopy of twisted metal formed by stacks of smashed cars waiting for the crusher to finish them off. The cut-down oil drums were arranged in a neat horseshoe—empty chairs, awaiting guests. Terry braked gently; then vaulted easily off the Jeep to the ground. He disappeared somewhere behind the rubble, leaving Simba with me and Max.
I sat down on one of the drums. The junkyard was a graveyard, too. My Pansy was there, her body under a wreath of twisted rebar and razor wire. |Just her body, I said in my mind. I’m not a man who visits cemeteries—Pansy was always with me.
Belle’s body is there, too.
I see them, together. Waiting.
Sometimes, that comforts me. Sometimes, it makes me wish I could kill some people all over again.
Simba slowly came closer. Finally, the beast sat before me, his harsh old eyes holding me until he was sure I was paying attention.
“I know,” I told him. “Thanks.”
The Mole materialized from the gloom, wearing his standard dirt-colored jumpsuit. The Coke-bottle lenses of his glasses were prisms in the tricky light. He shambled forward, as awkward as a drunk.
“Mole,” I said, getting up.
He kept coming until he was only inches away, then stopped.
“So?” His madman’s eyes examined me, collecting data for his genius brain.
“I’m all right,” I told him.
“Is there a job?”
“No, Mole. I just came home.”
“To stay?”
“If I can pull it off.”
The Mole turned and greeted Max with a slight bow. Simba banged his noble, scarred head against the Mole’s leg. The lunatic absently patted his dog’s head, muttering something in their two-creature language.
“Everything’s different!” Terry said brightly. “You wouldn’t believe it, Burke. I’m in college. Mom has a new job. We’re all going to—”
“Nothing is different,” the Mole said mildly.
The kid looked at me, then slowly nodded agreement. Learning from his father, as always.
We spent a few hours down in the Mole’s bunker, catching up. Listening to Terry, mostly. The kid made sure to include Max in his narratives, using the street-signing we’d taught him. Max can read lips, but I’m never sure how much he gets, so I usually throw in a few gestures whenever I speak. The Mole never bothers; it’s not like most people understand what he says, anyway.
“You need a car?” the Mole finally asked me.
“I...guess. I came in with one, but it’s not exactly anonymous. A Subaru SVX.”
The Mole grunted something.
“I don’t know where it is now,” I told him. I looked at Max, and made the gesture for steering a car.
Max tapped the ground with his foot, then pointed down. So the Subaru was buried someplace safe. It had good paper on it, and it was registered to a fine set of bogus ID I’d been using on the other coast. I could sign it over in blank, give the paper to a driver, let him clout the car down in Florida, maybe. We couldn’t know if anyone was onto the ID, but if they were, the sale would place me a long way from home. And I could use the money.
“Which car did you take?” the Mole asked Terry.
“The Accord.”
“You want that one?” the Mole asked me. “In the City, nobody sees it.”
“Sure...” I told him. “That’d be great.”
The Mole gave me a look, but he didn’t say anything.
We walked back to where the Honda was hiding. Without the Jeep, it took maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. Terry never stopped talking. The Mole said about as much as Max did.
But before we took off, he leaned down to where I had the window open. “Nothing is different,” he said again. Like he wanted to make sure I got the message.
We took the back way home, over the Willis Avenue Bridge. It was late afternoon, the deep shadows already dancing with impatience to take over the streets. As we came up on the Houston Street exit off the Drive, Max reached over and tapped my wristwatch. He wasn’t asking me what time it was; he was saying we had a meet.
“What?” I mimed.
Max didn’t respond. But when we got to Chrystie Street, he pointed through the windshield—keep going straight. We weren’t headed for Chinatown, then. I stayed on Houston to the bitter end, then turned south down Varick Street. Max kept pointing me through the narrow maze of blocks that circled the Holland Tunnel like broken capillaries around a bruise.
We found a parking spot under a sign that said not to. I got out and followed Max down a garbage-filled alley. As we turned the corner, I saw a pair of center-joined doors, their frosted glass worn away enough to show a metal grate behind. On the glass, someone had painted ROOMS in once-red freehand.
Max made a “let’s go” gesture and opened the doors, pushing the grate aside with one hand. To the right was a long plank with a hinged center section. Behind it stood a wall of pigeonholes. Large number-tagged keys poked out of a few of the slots. A long-handled bolt cutter stood against the wall.
Behind the plank, there was a fat man in a wheelchair, wearing a green eyeshade out of a Fifties movie, only twisted around, hip-hop style. His eyes were the color of old dimes. Between rapid blinks, they scanned, recorded...and erased the tape.
I followed Max up an uncarpeted flight of stairs that was a little cleaner than the alley. On the next landing, a single low-watt bulb protruding from the wall revealed only the vague shapes of doors, all closed.
Max went up another flight, checked the area briefly, then kept climbing. I recognized the top floor by its skylight. Signs were splattered randomly over the walls—EPA, Health Department, Office of Building Management—warning of everything from exposed wiring to lead paint to asbestos contamination. NO ADMITTANCE! DANGER!
In case anyone still felt brave, there was a triptych of rat posters, the kind the Transit Authority slaps up in your better subway stations. Drawings of malevolent rodents, with a POISON!! notice above. Nice places, subway tunnels. If the vermin didn’t get you, what the City tried to kill them with would.
I warily eyed the cables dangling from the ceiling as we walked to the end of the hall. We came to a decrepit-looking wooden door, sagging on its hinges. Max pushed it open, stepped aside to usher me in, a faint smile on his usually flat face.
The Prof and Clarence were seated at what had once been a professional poker table—a green felt octagon, with round slots for ashtrays and drinking glasses at each station. They gave me an indifferent glance, as if I were a stranger who had just walked into a bar.
Max tugged at my sleeve and pointed for me to look around. Instead of the coffin-sized rooms you’d expect in a flophouse, the place was spacious enough to hold a corporate meeting—someone had taken a sledgehammer to the connecting walls. The windows were small and grimy, but an overhead skylight bathed the whole space in soft light.
Max gave me the tour. There was no kitchen, but someone had put in a little blue microwave, a chrome toaster, and a white enamel hotplate with two burners. Three stubby brown mini-fridges were stacked one on top of another.
At the very end of the corridor was
what had once been the shared bathroom for the whole floor. Its walls had been punched out to incorporate the room next to it, and it now featured a coiled aluminum line that added a shower option to the good-sized white fiberglass tub. There was a skylight above that room, too.
Retracing our steps, Max pointed out the new layer of rubber flooring, a tasteful shade of black. Fresh drywall had been used to form a sleeping room, furnished with an army cot, a wooden chest of drawers, and four stand-up steel lockers.
“What you think, Schoolboy?” the Prof asked, coming up behind where I was standing.
“It’s beautiful,” I told him, meaning it.
“Yeah, bro. The Mole tricked it out slick.”
“The Mole?”
“See,” the little man chuckled to Clarence, “I told you Burke wouldn’t bust it.” He turned to me. “Don’t look like the Mole’s tracks, right?”
“Well...”
“That’s the point of the joint, son. Downstairs, it’s still an SRO. One step up from a chickenwire flophouse. A pound a night, cash in hand. Every night, or they padlock your room. The building’s marked—they’re gonna make fucking condos out of it or something. You know the way the City is now, bro. Ain’t no place motherfuckers won’t live, because there ain’t no room for all of them that wants to, right?”
“Even after the World Trade Center?”
“This is The Apple, son,” the Prof said, with the bitter pride only people born and raised here ever really get right—or understand. “They’d have to do a lot more than knock down some buildings and kill a bunch of folk.”
He held out his hand, palm up. I slapped it soft, no argument.
“So, anyway,” the little man went on, “they don’t tumble buildings no more, they rehab them. This here one, that’s what it’s waiting on. ’Course, with all the palms that got to be greased, it’ll be years before it ever actually happens.”
“And in the meantime...”
“Yeah. You lay in the cut. Right up here on the top floor. Off the books, complete. Far as the City know, this floor’s unfit for human occupancy. Nobody goes past the third.”
“The guy at the desk...?”
“You don’t need to worry about him, bro. The only thing Gateman’s got an eye out for is his PO.”
“What’d he go for?”
“He’s a shooter.”
“You mean, he was, right?”
“No, son. Gateman always worked right from that chair. Last time down, the jury hung on homicide. Gateman claimed the other guy was making his move. Self-defense. The other guy was strapped, but he never cleared leather. Gateman’s a cutie. Told the DA he had to sit anyway, might as well sit on The Rock until they tried him again. They have a staredown, and the DA blinked. Kept dropping the offer. When it got down to Man Two, Gateman took the lucky seven, did his half-plus.”
“He doesn’t work now?”
“Just behind that desk, son. But I pity the sucker who tries to stick up the place.”
If this was any city but New York, I might have raised an eyebrow at anyone holding up a flophouse. Here, I just nodded.
“Gateman, he’s on the hustle,” the Prof said. “He gets a free room and a little cash for managing the place. Picks up some extra fronting meets—there’s a big room behind that desk. Trading post; you see where I’m going.”
“He trade anything else?”
“Gateman’s good people,” the Prof assured me. “Time-tested. Two rides; never lied to glide. I did a stretch with him, back in the day. He gets a G a month from us. That’s his lifeline; he can count on it. And, anyway, you ain’t no fugitive now. No price on your head. What’s he going to get from diming you?”
“Does he know who I am?”
“Maybe.” The Prof shrugged. “Gateman’s not the kind to show what he know. But he for damn sure knows who Max is, understand? Besides, he don’t even have to see you come and go, you don’t want him to, honeyboy. I told you the Mole was on the job. Want to see?”
“Sure.”
The Prof walked over to what looked like a floor-to-ceiling closet built out into the room, walled on three sides. When he opened it, I saw a flat platform and a pair of thick cables.
“Used to be one of those dumbwaiters,” the Prof said proudly. “My man Mole gets his hands on it—you know what you got now? A private elevator, bro! You got to crouch a little, but it works like a charm.”
“Where does it go?” I asked, taking a closer look.
“Basement. Nothing down there but the furnace and the boiler. Door opens in, not out, okay? When you open it, looks like you’re facing a blank wall, but it’s really the back of a big Dumpster. Lever to your right. You pull it down, it unlocks the wheels. You just shove it away, step out, push it back, and you’re in the alley. A phantom. Even if someone sees you, they don’t believe it.”
“What if there’s someone waiting in the—?”
“Got you backed, Jack. The Mole hooked up one of those submarine things. You know what I’m talking about, right? You look in it, you see what’s happening outside. Works at night, too. Everything looks kind of greenish, but you can still see boss, hoss.”
“I stay up here three nights once, while we are getting it ready, mahn,” Clarence said. “Quiet as a graveyard.”
“Rats don’t make a sound, huh?” I said.
Max pointed to a big box in a far corner. It looked like a stage speaker for an industrial-music concert. The Mongolian pointed at his ears, raised his eyebrows, and jerked his head around as if he just heard something. He made a mound of his hand to imitate the huge hindquarters and tiny head of the Universal Rat. Then he shook his head as if the sound was painful, and made the rat scurry away.
I nodded at him. Sure. The Mole wouldn’t waste his time with traps or poison. Cats can handle mice, but they’ve got too much sense to mess with City-mutated rats. For those, what you need is a little terrier...and my family knew I wasn’t ready even to think about another dog.
“Well, brother? This work for you?”
I scanned their faces, seeing what I’d crossed the country to see again.
“It’s the best place I ever had in my life,” I said.
I took my time settling in. Trying it on, adjusting the fit. Did a lot of dry runs through the basement: in and out, always at night. Slowly, I got familiar with the place, admiring the little touches they had added to protect me, like the acoustic tile on the walls. And the three cellular phones, all set to the same cloned number, each with a separate charging holster, so that one was always live. The electricity was bridged from Gateman’s own unit, and it powered the space heaters just fine when I tested them.
No A/C; wall units would have given away the game from the outside, and central air was impossible. But the venting was superb, so the fans were able to whisper the summer days down to comfortable.
I kept the anonymous pistol Mama had given me on a little shelf in the elevator shaft. One flick of my hand and it would drop to the basement, well out of reach of any search warrant.
Each room had a large plastic disk on one of the walls. Any weight on the stairs would make the disks glow flash-fire red, bright enough to wake you out of a deep sleep.
In a room off the entrance, I found they had hooked me up with a big-screen TV. And a piece of Gateman’s cable package. He was a high roller in that department—I even got HBO and Showtime.
That’s when it first hit me. My old office was too small to ever have friends over—say, to watch a fight on TV together. It was barely large enough for me and Pansy, and...and then I understood why my people had set up my new place the way they had.
“Calls come in,” Mama said. “All time, always.”
“Business?”
“Maybe sometimes,” she said, shrugging to emphasize the “maybe” part.
“What do you think?” I asked Michelle.
“I think maybe Mr. Burke could have an assistant,” she purred.
“You?”
“Me
? Honey, I am no man’s ‘assistant.’ I was talking about you.”
“Sure, bro,” the Prof counseled. “Take the handoff and hit the line. You got to get back to work.”
I don’t know how the woman stumbled across my phone number...the one that rings in a Chinese laundry in Brooklyn and forwards to the pay phones behind my booth. That number’s been part of the graffiti in certain back alleys for so long that most of the people who call it can’t remember where they got it.
Michelle and I met her in a diner, somewhere around the Elmhurst–Rego Park border in Queens. She looked like a woman in her late thirties who’d kept herself pretty well...or like a teenager with most of her nerve endings deep-fried. If she had a problem with me and Michelle both being the “screeners” for the busy Mr. Burke, she didn’t say. Maybe because she was even busier amping out her story.
“Nola—that’s my genetic mother but I don’t call her ‘Mother’ because she’s not a mother because mothers don’t lie to their own children about critical things like she did, like she always did, from the very beginning—Nola, she told me that my father was a one-night stand, you know, like in a movie or something,” she said in one breath. The edges of her speech splintered with stress fractures. “Very romantic. He was a poet or something; I don’t remember. I don’t remember lies. That takes a lot of work. You try it yourself, if you don’t believe me. Forgetting something, that’s hard. Trying makes you remember. But I finally got it. I don’t remember what she said he was. My father. She said she never knew his name, but one day she saw his picture in the paper. He was killed in a car accident, or something. I think that’s what she said, anyway. I don’t remember. Because it was all a lie, so I don’t remember it.”
I felt Michelle’s long fingernail pressing into my knee, telling me to sit still. She was a lot more interested in the end of the story than I was.
“She isn’t as smart as she thinks, Nola,” the woman went on. “And I’m not as stupid as she thinks I am, either. I investigated her. She never thought of that. She thought I’d investigate him. But how could I do that, when I didn’t know anything about him? Except lies. And I can’t remember lies.
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