The messenger stepped ahead, motioning us to stay where we were. Bowed to the woman, said something in a rapid–fire language I didn't know. Sounded like some kind of French.
"Speak their tongue," the woman said, her voice darkly rich, gold–laced loam.
"We have done as you commanded," the man said in reply.
"Come forward," the woman said.
I approached, Clarence just behind me on my right. I bowed, folding my upper body protectively over the package.
"They have no weapons," the woman said.
Sounds in the darkness: a pistol taken off full cock, a sword being sheathed.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Burke."
"You have brought us our offering?"
"Yes," I said. "That and an apology."
"Your friend, he is the one who hurt one of our people? In Central Park?"
"No."
"Yes, he is the one. You would lie for a friend?"
"I would die for one," I said quietly, cursing myself, clutching the juju bag.
"Your friend is young. He did not know what he was doing?"
"He only thought I was to be attacked."
"Yes. Give what you have brought to us."
The messenger stepped forward. I handed him the bag. He placed it reverently on a dark slab of polished wood. At a nod from the Queen, he unwrapped it carefully, gently removing the plastic. Held the bag up for her to see.
"It is as it was," she said. "You will return it to the sacred place."
He bowed.
"Come closer," the woman said.
Clarence and I started toward her. "Just you," she said. "Let your friend stay—I have not asked his name."
She was younger than I first thought—hard to tell exactly. Even in the flame from the candles, I could see she was exquisite. One eye darker than the other, a black dot high on one cheekbone. Seated before me, knees together under the red silk, one hand on each arm of the dark wood chair, she looked into my eyes as if she were looking down. A long distance.
"Why did you take our offering?"
"I was looking for a missing baby. I came across your offering, but I didn't know what it was. I thought it might be evidence. Something that would help me find the baby."
"What did you think it was?"
"Witchcraft."
"You do not fear witches?"
"Yes, I fear them."
"You have known them, then?"
"One of them." Strega. Flame–haired and fire–hearted. At peace now. And so gone from me.
Her chin tilted, studying me. "Yes, you have. But not one of us."
"No."
"The juju is an offering. When one of us dies, his spirit will be doomed unless we make a loa so it can return to earth. That is what you took."
"I am sorry. Had I known…"
"Yes. Are you afraid now?"
"Yes, I am afraid now."
"What kind of man admits he is afraid standing before a woman?"
"A man who has seen things."
"Tell me about the baby, the missing baby."
"A grandmother was told her grandchild had disappeared. The baby was too young to run away. Her daughter had been with a man. A bad man, the baby's father. She believed something had happened to her grandson. Her people asked me to look for the child."
"What have you found?"
"The baby is dead."
"How do you know this?"
"The mother told me. The father killed him. Beat him to death. I was looking for the body."
"So she who loved the baby could help his spirit rise?"
"Yes. Not the mother."
"I know. You are a hunter. The young one too. It is the father you seek now?"
"The authorities are looking for him."
"Yes. Have you found the body?"
"Not yet. The father, his name is Emerson, he lived at the Welfare hotel by the airport. When he left, the night of the death, he had the baby's body with him. When he came back, he did not. I think the baby's in the water, right by the airport."
"He killed the child the same night you took our offering?"
"No. A week or so before."
"So when you saw the offering, you thought…"
"Yes. I thought the baby was in there. Parts of the baby."
The woman closed her eyes, brought hands to her temples. It was so quiet in the basement I could hear the candles flicker.
I could feel Clarence behind me, waves pulsing in the room.
Her eyes opened.
"Describe the man," she said.
I reached in my pocket, handed her the razor–cropped picture we'd taken from the hotel room.
She took one quick look. I heard a snake's hiss—didn't look around to see where it came from.
"Please go upstairs. Outside. Smoke some of your cigarettes. I must talk with my people. Then we will talk again."
I bowed.
113
I kicked a wooden match into life in the night air, dragged deep on my cigarette.
"Why'd you tell her you was scared, mahn?" Clarence asked.
"It was the truth. Still is."
"You really think she knew we had no weapons?"
"Yeah."
"How would she know that, mahn?"
I shrugged. "Maybe that's what she wants to tell us."
We waited, listening to the crime sounds from the street.
114
The messenger came into the yard. "Will you come back with us?" he asked me.
I nodded. We started for the basement. The messenger held up his hand. "Just you, please."
I looked at Clarence. "Wait in the car," I told him.
He scanned my face carefully, nodded.
They took me right before her this time.
"You have returned our offering to us. In exchange, I will answer your questions."
"I have no questions."
"All men have questions," she said, her voice so low and dark I had to strain for the words. "Do you think I am some foolish fortune–teller, some thief with a crystal ball? I am the third daughter of a third sister. That is the mystical number, three. People of confused religion say Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. That is idolatry. Before religion, there was Earth, Wind, and Fire. Always three. Primitive man did not understand that sex makes babies—if it were not for sex, there would be no man. Sex is the drive force, and it is controlled by women. There are three ways into the female body, but only one will make children. A man would have no preference. That is why a woman s sex is a triangle. Three again. The true root of all communication with the spirits. Only a queen may know all the truth. A man may know only what he is told. People first mated like animals, never face to face. This changed only when women grew tired of bending over. When there is famine, women are not fertile. Their bodies know the spirits—their bodies are the link to the earth. Do you understand this?"
"Yes."
"Do you believe it?" Something else in her voice, testing.
"Yes." Thinking of Blossom, lying on her bed, listening to her chuckle. "No wonder men are so stupid—their brains are all in such a small place."
"You are Wednesday's child, born to sadness. Yes?"
"Yes."
"Many children are born without a father—only the most damned are born without a mother. You know this?"
"Yes."
"Why did you look for this baby?"
"It was a job."
"No."
"I can't explain it, then."
"I know. Listen to me, child of sorrow: the baby is in the water, as you believed. I know this. The man you seek, he worshiped with us. Pretended to worship. The night of the child's death, he came to us. The baby's body in his arms. He said the child had choked to death in his crib. He asked us for a sacrifice. To save the baby's spirit. He thought what you thought…what you are afraid to say…that our offerings contain the bodies…that the baby would be cut up, placed inside the bag. When we told him how we would make the sacrifi
ce, he walked away from us. We thought it was grief then. Now we know the truth—he feared the baby's spirit would walk."
"I understand."
"Do you? Do you understand that you are a baby's spirit? Spirit walking? Go now. You will search for the evil—I see that in you. When the time comes, return to me. I will show you the path."
115
No cars followed us from the house. Rain misted around the Rover, overmatching the puny wipers.
"Where shall I take you, mahn?"
"Anywhere over the bridge."
"You don't want me to see where you live, then?"
"Better you don't know, right? You were planning to drop in one day, have a visit?"
"Maybe I do that, mahn. Bring you some Island beer, sit around, talk some…would that be so bad, now?"
"That's not what I'm saying, Clarence."
"Yes, I know," he said. But his eyes were hurt.
116
I let Pansy out to her roof, ignoring her attitude because I came home without a treat.
I never have to ask myself why something scares me. So much does. A child doesn't fear death—doesn't understand what it is. A child fears pain. Immediate pain. The terror is to remember.
The freaks count on it.
117
I walked all the way to Chinatown the next morning. Stopped at a bakery for a bag of small hard poppy–seed rolls. Chewed them slowly, one at a time. To settle my stomach. Stopped again at a greengrocer, got a handful of fresh parsley and cold bottle of pineapple juice. Sipped it slowly, crossing the still–wet streets, watching.
By the time I got near Mama's, I was munching the parsley, cleaning out my mouth.
The Plymouth was parked in the alley, the rear end too close to the wall. Max could catch flies in the air without hurting them, but he couldn't drive worth a damn.
I knocked on the back door, thinking about Luke in the basement. How basements used to frighten him.
About last night.
One of Mama's crew let me in, nodded his head toward the dining area.
Max was in my booth, the Prof across from him. The little man was rapping away, waving his hands like it was sign language.
I sat down next to Max. One of the waiters brought me a glass of water, went away.
"How'd it go, bro'?" the Prof greeted me.
"Okay. It was okay. I gave them their property. We're all square." I didn't bother to ask him how he knew about the meeting.
I looked over at Max. Spread my hands in a "what?" gesture. He nodded. Rapid–fire universal gestures, the kind you can use anywhere in the world: thumb rubbed against first two fingers, finger pointing straight ahead, same finger making small circles next to his temple. Then he made the sign for "okay." He gave the money to the crazy man, no problems.
The Prof wasn't satisfied yet. "Come on, homeboy. What was the scene with the Queen? What'd she say—how'd it play?"
I ran it all down to him, gesturing for Max. After all these years, I could do it pretty fast. If Max doesn't get something, he lets me know.
"You know what I was thinking, Prof? How I wasn't scared…you understand? I'm in a basement in Corona, some kind of voodoo temple. They decide to do something to me, I'm gone. Nobody'd even hear a shot on that block. Nobody'd care. But I'm calm. From the beginning. Like nothing's gonna happen to me."
"Her game's not pain, bro'."
"Yeah. You believe…? I mean…you understand what she told me?"
"All preachers the same, Burke. They say what makes the people pay."
"You think it's a hustle?"
"You think there's one answer, babe? The Catholics are right about what they sell, then all the Jews are goin' to hell. The Muslims be the only ones who know the way, it's the Buddhists who're gonna pay. Live righteous, the Man knows, whoever he is, get it? Ain't no pie in the sky when you die. Here and now, on the ground…what's true is what you do."
"You think it's all different names for the same thing?"
"Afterwards? Here's the truth…you won't know until you go."
I saw Wesley. In a fiery pit, the stare from his dead eyes chilling the air, the Devil backing into a corner, afraid.
118
I drove to the South Bronx by myself. Muddy Waters for a soundtrack. A live performance from the fifties, taped in Chicago. The Master, still fresh from the Delta then, getting it down right. Shouting about catching the first train smoking. Nobody in the audience thought he was planning to buy a ticket.
The last cut on the tape. "Bad Luck Child."
Terry let me inside, his small face animated with news.
"I got a letter from Mom. She's learning modern dance. She said she'd show me when she comes back."
"Yeah? She tell you to mind the Mole?"
"Sort of. She said to watch out for him. To go with him, when he goes outside but…
"But not when he goes with me, right?"
"Yes. But…"
"It's okay, Terry. I'm not taking the Mole anywhere. I just need to ask him some stuff."
119
The Mole was peering intently into a glass beaker the size of a mason jar, surgical gloves on his hands. I looked over his shoulder. A jet–black spider in a triangular web, a fat bulbous teardrop, glistening. The Mole slowly rotated the jar. On the spider's underside, a bright red hourglass. Black widow.
He took a pair of metal tweezers from his shirt pocket, plucked a piece of white spongy material from his workbench. The white stuff was maybe half the size of the nail on my little finger, a monofilament line strung through it. He took the screen off the top of the beaker, grabbed the line, held the white lump delicately poised over the rim, dangled it gently, slowly letting it descend.
I could feel Terry's kid–breath on my cheek as he pressed forward to get a look. The web trembled as the white lump caught. The spider's legs pawed, reading the vibrations.
Time passed. The spider worked its way toward the lump, confident. The Mole delicately feathered the line—the white lump struggled in the web. Suddenly, the spider shot forward, burying its fangs into the lump, forelegs grasping to immobilize its victim.
After a while, the spider released its grip. It began to exude webbing from its vent, starting to wrap the victim so it could later feast in peace. The Mole pulled up the line. The spider clung fast, refusing to surrender its prize. When the lump neared the top, Terry handed the Mole a can of compressed air with a long needle–nozzle. The Mole hit the button and the spider was blown free, falling harmlessly back to the floor of the beaker.
The Mole dropped the white lump into a petri dish, holding the line taut while Terry clipped it close with a pair of scissors. The Mole capped the petri dish, put it inside a small refrigerator, the last addition to a small, neat row already on the shelf.
"What do you want with black widow venom, Mole?" I asked him.
"Don't know yet."
"Yeah, okay. Can I ask you something?"
"What?"
"You know tinted glass…like they use in limos, so people can't see in?"
The Mole fiddled with some dials on what looked like a transformer they use for electric trains, ignoring my stupid questions. Waiting.
"Well, could you make it so it was reversed? So anyone could see in, but nobody inside could see out? Just the back, not the windshield?"
"Yes," he said. Meaning: sure, stupid.
"Could you do it, like…now?"
"Your car?"
"No. I need a car with…"
"Cold plates," the kid piped up. Michelle would have slapped him.
"Yeah. Just for maybe twenty–four hours. Less."
"With a barrier?"
"Yeah. Like, maybe, a gypsy cab or…"
"We have one, Mole. The old Dodge. Back in the…"
The Mole gave him a look. Terry stared right back. Finally, the Mole nodded. The kid ran upstairs.
120
I watched the Mole carefully measure the windows on the old Dodge, watched him cut the dark film wit
h an X–acto knife, press it into place with a rubber block. Terry used a socket wrench to put on the new plates, changed the oil and filter, checked the battery, fan belt. Ran some kind of gauge on the ignition. "The tires are okay, Burke. But don't go too fast with it."
"It's not for a bank job, kid."
"Oh, I know." Wise little bastard.
When they were done, I walked around the car. From the outside, it looked like a gypsy cab, better condition than most, in fact. I climbed in the back seat. Sat down, closed the door.
Blackout. The Mole had even treated the Plexiglas barrier between the front and back seats with the same material. A blindfold with wheels.
"Perfect, Mole!" I told him.
He nodded, unsurprised. "Prisoner?" he asked.
"No. A volunteer. But they can't know where they're going."
He nodded again. Shambled off. I wasn't even finished with my cigarette when he came back with one of those gooseneck Tensor lamps. When he was done screwing it onto the shelf behind the back seat, you could light up the interior even with the windows closed. Terry removed the door handles and window cranks from the back seat, covering the holes with metal discs.
The Mole got a hose and a battery–powered vacuum. We cleaned it inside and out.
"Thanks, Mole."
He nodded again.
Terry jumped up and down, excited now. "Mole, can I…? You said when Burke came again…"
The Mole shrugged. Nodded again. The kid took off. The Mole held up his hand in a "wait!" gesture to me.
Terry came running back, a fat dirt–colored puppy in his arms.
"Burke! Look, isn't she beautiful!" Setting the puppy on the ground.
I knelt down, rolled the pup over, rubbed her belly. "She sure is, Terry. Where'd you get her?"
"She's Simba's…Simba's and Elsa's. She was born right here—the pick of the litter," he said proudly.
"Which one is Elsa?"
"The one who looks like a bull mastiff. When she went into heat, Simba wouldn't let any of the others near her…Mole explained it to me.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes. Do you like her?"
"Sure. She looks like a real tiger. What's her name?"
"She doesn't have one yet. She's for Luke, okay? Okay, Burke? Please? Mole said I could ask you."
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