“So?”
“So can I stay here and have you got the two bills?”
“You must be crazy. You go through all this to offer me five grand and you haven’t got two hundred?”
“I got it, Burke. I just don’t have it here. I couldn’t carry it around with me, could I?”
“I already laid out a yard for this place.”
“I’ll have your money tomorrow—meet you here at noon?”
I just looked at her, her eyes were still dead. But Michelle must have trusted her if she gave her that message to pass on. “Burke, if you do this, I swear you’ll never regret it.”
“I already regret it.”
“I got nothing here to give you, nothing except my body—and I’m sure you don’t want that.” And suddenly, damn her, her dead eyes got wet and she started to cry.
And so Burke the great scam artist, the never-suckered city poacher, sat on a couch and held a crying whore for almost three hours and then gave her two hundred dollars and drove her back to the streets. Before I went into that room, Dandy was a maggot. Now he was a maggot who owed me money.
26
AFTER I DROPPED off Margot I kept thinking about how her eyes didn’t look dead anymore. Maybe they were alive with hope, maybe with the joy of ripping off another sucker. There was only one sure way to find out, and that meant I had to find the Prof and Michelle both. There was only one place in the whole city where I might hit that exacta, a midtown joint called The Very Idea. So I stashed the Plymouth back at the office, walked a few blocks, and caught a cab uptown.
The Very Idea isn’t exactly closed to the public, but it’s not the kind of place where a citizen would stay very long. It’s supposed to be just for transsexuals and their friends—no transvestites, drag queens, fag hags, or hustlers—and most especially no tourists. It’s over near First Avenue, just a snort away from some of the heaviest singles bars. I heard that the folks in The Very Idea used to get together and practice their routines on each other before they tried them out on the citizens. They’re all supposed to do this while they get the hormone injections—Michelle told me you have to cross-dress for a year, stay in therapy, and get a clean bill of psychiatric health before they let you have the sex-change surgery. But the citizens are too easy to fool, and it’s not a good test. The club was the idea of a few of them, a private subscription deal. They didn’t expect to make money, just to have a place to hang out in peace. But somehow the joint caught on and now it does a good business. It’s not frantic like a gay bar, and I can see why folks like to just drop in to spend a few bucks and enjoy the quiet. But, like I said, most people aren’t welcome there.
I had the cab let me off a few blocks away, walked over to the river, and doubled back to the club. There was a middle-sized lunch crowd already in place and it looked more like Schrafft’s than a gay bar. Well, like Michelle said, it wasn’t a gay bar.
I didn’t see Michelle so I headed for the long counter. As usual, Ricardo was in place. He serves as sort of a maitre d’ and bartender at the same time, selected more for his courtly manners than anything else, I suppose. I know for damn sure they don’t need a bouncer in that joint. One time some jerkoff sailors found their way inside and started some trouble with Ricardo. He didn’t participate personally—just watched while his customers made short work of the sailors. I don’t know if the Shore Patrol declared the place off-limits after that or what, but I do know the sailors’ threats to return and demolish the place never came to anything. “Ah, Mr. Burke,” Ricardo greeted me, “a pleasure to see you again, sir. Will you have the usual?”
I said sure without the slightest idea of what he was talking about. Ricardo thinks questions like that add a lot of class to the joint. He put some silly-looking glass filled with dark liquid and a slice of lime in front of me. I didn’t touch it—I don’t drink. I put a twenty on the bar, Ricardo made it disappear and threw a bunch of bills back in the original spot. I let them ride and asked, “Seen Michelle?”
“Today?” A blank look on his face.
“Ricardo, you know me—what’s the problem?”
He let his eyes drift down to the money on the bar. Sure—if I was there as a friend, why would I have to bribe this guy just to find out where she was? Ricardo wasn’t as dumb as he acted. So I said, “For my drinks . . . and hers, right?”
He smiled. The man had about twice the normal allotment of teeth. “She’s in the dining room, sir.”
The dining room crack just meant she was around someplace, and that he would let her know I was here. I don’t know how they do that, and I never asked. But the system works—in less than five minutes Michelle swished through the door of the ladies room and took the stool next to me.
“Looking for company, handsome?”
“Actually,” I told her, “I’m looking for the Prophet.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“No, baby, I mean Prof, you know?”
“Oh, that Prof. He’ll be here. This place is on his regular rounds. But I guess you knew that.”
“Yeah. Look, I have to ask you something about your friend Margot.”
“Ask me what, honey?” said Michelle, her face calm but her eyes alert.
“Is she straight?”
“She’s a who-ah, sweetie, a pros-tit-tute.”
“That’s not what I mean, Michelle. She told me some things, and maybe she asked me to do some things. I don’t want to get it caught in a wringer.”
“One of my friends got it caught in a wringer. It cost a lot of money—she should have gone to Sweden. You know they don’t do the operations at Johns Hopkins anymore?”
“Yeah, I know. Do you know Margot’s pimp?”
“Dandy? Yes, I know the swine.”
“A swine because he’s running girls or—?”
“A swine, darling. A pain-freak—there’s a lot of them around nowadays. I don’t even think he’s a righteous pimp, you know? Like he marks the girls in the face—what kind of pimp does that?”
“What’s his weight?” I asked.
“Strictly fly, baby. He came from Boston where he was working some runaways. That’s his real thing, you know. He has some boys too. I heard he was even pimping when he was in the joint.”
“Why would he come down from Boston?”
“Baby, don’t you know the way it works? It’s harder to pimp in a small town. You have to be in good with the locals, and you can make enemies so easily. Here in the Rotten Apple there is room for everyone—you don’t have to be connected to work street girls, you don’t have to make payoffs, don’t even need a trick book. All you need is meat on the street, just some meat on the street. Maybe he had some trouble back in Boston—who knows?”
“You saying Margot is good people?”
“Honey, for a biological woman, she’s all right.”
“Okay,” I said, “now what about the message you gave her for me?”
Michelle leaned against me, put one hand on the back of my neck to bring me closer to her lips, and whispered, “I heard about a freak who did some kids, did them real bad. And when he got popped he dropped a pocketful of dimes, okay? I don’t know if he’s your man, but he sounds right. And one of the heavies he is supposed to have given up is this man who makes ugly movies. Burke, I won’t even say this man’s name—get it from someplace else.”
“Where?”
“Honey, I don’t know. I already said too much, even to you. This is the man you have to see if you want a snuff film, okay?” Michelle released her grip. “I love you, Burke,” and she leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. She swung off the stool and disappeared back into the club without another word.
I asked Ricardo for a roast beef sandwich and got some three-decker nonsense on toast with the crusts neatly trimmed off. I was eating and checking the paper when the Prof appeared in a floor-length raincoat and carrying an umbrella. The city was in for a long dry spell.
“It’s going to rain?” I asked the Prophet.
&
nbsp; “It will rain,” he promised.
“What happened to seven-twenty-seven?”
“It was the wrong plane, my son. The number came seven-forty-seven. When you work with me, you have to think big.”
“So it was my fault?”
“God gives the word—mortals interpret the word of God. There is more than a single version of the Bible, and for good reason.”
“Do you think you might be persuaded to give the word to an individual here on earth?”
“This is always possible,” he said. “Are you going to finish that sandwich?”
“No,” I said, and shoved it across, signaling to Ricardo to give him whatever he wanted to drink. Ricardo appeared, looked questioningly at the Prophet, who asked, “Buttermilk?” smiling his sweet smile.
Ricardo served it up like he had a call for buttermilk every day. Maybe he did.
I turned to the Prof. “You know a halfass pimp named Dandy?”
The Prof handled the segue back to the prison yard without breaking stride. “I got the slant on the whole plant, Burke. He’s a new boy, green to the scene—talks a tough game but he hasn’t been with us long.”
“The word is he won’t be with us much longer if he doesn’t change his ways.”
“Talk to me,” said the Prof.
“Let me put it this way,” I said. “Sometimes you have to play the same hand you deal to other people.”
“What goes around, comes around—true enough. Who’s down on his case?”
“Among others, Max the Silent.”
“Max? Max the life-taking, widow-making, silent wind of death?”
“The same.”
“I got the message, Burke. The Prof will not be around when the shit comes down.”
“No, that’s not it, Prof. I want this fool to understand what he’s playing with, okay? I want to send him a message.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Clean up his act or take it on the road . . . alone.”
The Prof thought for a minute. “Leave his string behind, is that it?”
“As far as I know, he’s got no string—just one lady, and he’s working her too hard.”
“I got it. And I’ll give him the word. Can I tell him in public?”
“Why?”
“Look, Burke, I got to survive on these streets too. If I lay the message on him and he doesn’t listen, then Max moves on him, right?”
“Right.”
“So people connect me with Max—that’s a better insurance policy than Prudential.”
“Good enough. But he’s supposed to be a nasty bastard, Prof—he may not take the message too well.”
“If he wants to play, he’s got to pay,” said the Prof, and I put a pair of tens into his hand. He slid off the barstool, turned, and said: “What’s the word?”
“If there’s a reason, there’s a season?” I ventured.
“Yes, and if it’s truth, it can’t be treason,” he replied, and vanished into the daylight outside.
I left a ten on the bar for Ricardo and followed in the Prophet’s footsteps. At the rate this case was going I could end up on welfare—or veteran’s assistance, or disability, workman’s compensation, unemployment, or any of the other government paths to a regular income. I hoped not—it was a drag keeping track of all that paperwork.
27
I WALKED A few blocks through the sunlight, found a pay phone, and called Flood. Someone else answered. “Ms. Flood is instructing.” I hung up while she was saying something about leaving a message. Walked another few blocks to another phone and called Mama. I told her I’d be over and hung up on her too when she started going on about being careful with bad people. After walking crosstown all the way to the West Side I got into a cab and told the driver to cruise down West Street. I got off near the World Trade Center, bought a copy of that night’s Harness Lines, and took my time strolling back to the office.
I passed an OTB parlor on the way. I don’t do business with them—at least I don’t place bets—but I do have one of those plastic credit cards that says I have a telephone account. Very useful. Not for betting on the phone, but for using the City of New York as a courier service. Here’s how it works: let’s say you’re rolling down the street carrying cash and some people know about it. They’d like to talk to you. So you duck into an OTB and make a cash deposit to your telephone account. You fill out a deposit slip just like in a bank, and they give you a stamped piece of paper for a receipt. Then you light a cigarette with the receipt and go back outside. If the people waiting ask you to step into their car and they search you, there’s no cash. They conclude you weren’t carrying the money on that particular occasion. Then, when you want your cash, you go to the main OTB branch on Forty-first Street, give them your account number and code word, and they give you a check that’s as good as gold. You can either mail the check to yourself or walk a half-block and turn it into cash. It’s a fine way to move money around the city, and OTB doesn’t charge a cent for the service. Even the checks are free.
When I got back to the office I let Pansy run on the roof again. She looked as calm as usual but that didn’t mean much—dogs don’t have long memories. The phone line was clear so I tried Flood again.
“Ms. Flood, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“You’re great at disgusing your voice, Flood.”
“Burke?”
“Yep.”
“I went to the court and—”
“Save it. Not on the phone. I’ll—”
“But listen—”
“Flood! Give it a rest. I can’t talk on this phone, okay? I’ll pick you up tonight, your place, at seven, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Can you wait in the lobby downstairs? Move out when you see the car?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t sound so depressed, kid. It’s coming soon.”
“Okay,” as flat as ever.
“Later, Flood.” I hung up.
I cruised over to Mama’s in the Plymouth, parked around the back, and went through the kitchen to look through the glass. The place was empty except for some dregs from the late lunchtime crowd. Stepping through the kitchen door sideways I entered the restaurant from the back like I’d been in the bathroom. I sat down at the last booth in the rear, the one with the half-eaten food standing around on the plates, and one of Mama’s waiters approached. “Will there be anything else?” I don’t know how Mama trained them, but they were good—I’d obviously been here for the past hour or so. I told the waiter I was satisfied and lit an after-lunch cigarette.
When the rest of the crowd moved out Mama left her place by the cash register in front and came over to sit with me. The waiter cleared off the table and I ordered some eggdrop soup and Mongolian beef with fried rice. Mama told the waiter to bring her some tea. “What is happening, Burke?”
“The usual stuff, Mama.”
“Those men on the phone—bad men, right?”
“Not bad like dangerous, Mama—just bad like lousy, you know?”
“Yes, I know, I hear in their voice, okay? Could be very bad people if you afraid of them, right?”
“Oh yeah, fear would make them tough for sure.”
“Max help you?”
“Sometimes.”
“I mean with those men, okay?”
“Max is my friend, Mama. He would help me and I would help him, understand?”
“I understand. Beef good?”
“The beef is perfect.”
“Not too hot?”
“Just right.”
“Cook very old. Sometimes you do thing long time you get very good, right? Some things you do too long, not so good.”
“Like me?”
“You not so old yet, Burke.” Max suddenly materialized at Mama’s elbow. She slid over in the booth to make room for him and signaled for more tea. Mama thought tea was important to Max’s continued growth and development. Max seemed indifferent to the entire issue. “Do
all Chinese people believe in tea?” I asked her.
“All Chinese people not same, Burke. You know this, right?”
“I just meant, is it a cultural thing, Mama? Like when the Irish drink beer even when they don’t like it?”
“I don’t know. But Max like tea too. Very good for him.” I looked at Max. He made a face to say the stuff wouldn’t hurt him so what the hell. He reads lips so well that sometimes I think he only pretends not to hear.
“Well, that’s kind of what I meant. You’re Chinese, Max is Chinese, you both like tea . . .”
Mama giggled like I’d said something funny. “You think Max Chinese?”
“Sure.”
“You think all people from Far East Chinese?”
“Mama, don’t be—”
“Maybe you think Max Japanese?” Mama giggled again. Don’t ask me why, but Chinese people don’t like Japanese people. In fact, the only subject on which I’ve seen Orientals agree is that none of them seem to like Koreans.
“I know Max isn’t Japanese.”
“How do you know?”
I knew because one night Max and I were talking about being a warrior and what it meant, and I mentioned the samurai tradition and Max said he had nothing to do with that. He told me a samurai must fight for his lord and Max had no lord. I didn’t get all of it, but I knew he wasn’t Japanese. It made sense to me—if you’re going to do crime for a living, the only way is to be self-employed. But I just told Mama, “I know.”
Max looked over at Mama, bowed his head to show great respect for all things Chinese, and then made great mountain peaks with his hands and pointed at his chest. Mama and I said “Tibet” at the same time and Max nodded. What the hell, Max wasn’t any more of a citizen than I was.
Mama said she had to get back to business, and Max stood up to let her out of the booth, bowing and sitting back to face me again all in one motion. Mama looked at me, then at Max, and spread her hands in a gesture of frustration. Max nodded sharply to tell her that I would be all right, and she seemed satisfied. Then he put twenty fifty-dollar bills on the table next to my copy of the racing form. I pocketed eighteen of them, left the remaining two for him—ten percent is his usual transportation fee.
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