Mac started to walk into the next room. The baby made a sound, less than a cry, maybe a question. Mac knelt next to her child, speaking quietly, her voice steel-cored. 'Mother will come back, baby. Always come back, yes? Never leave you.' She kissed the infant gravely on the forehead. Waved a goodbye gesture to the child. Again and again, patiently, until the child moved her hand too. 'Smart baby!' Immaculata clapped.
I took out a cigarette, held it up for Max to see, asking if it was okay to smoke near the child.
Max pointed to an ashtray the size of a dinner plate, aluminum on the outside, glazed red ceramic on the inside. He lit a cigarette of his own, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. Spreading his arms to say the whole world smoked and the baby wasn't going to spend the rest of her life in the house.
Immaculata came back inside. She had a pot of tea with two cups, a glass of iced ginger ale for me. 'I have your mail,' she said, handing me a stack of letters. I use a P.O. box over in Jersey. One of Mama's drivers empties it for me about every two weeks, leaves the letters in Mama's basement. Max picks them up when he has the chance and holds them for me. I shuffled through them. Nothing from Japan. Nothing from Flood. I put them in my coat.
Immaculata pulled up a chair, joined us, one eye on her baby. Flower was gurgling happily to herself. It sounded like singing.
Max held up one finger, catching my eye. Pay attention. He moved off his chair without a sound, crouched behind the baby. Suddenly he slapped his hands together. It sounded like a gunshot. The baby jumped, trying to turn her head in the direction of the sound. Max scooped her up and held her against his chest, nuzzling her, his horn-callused hands now soft as a cloud. The baby's tiny hands searched - found one of his fingers, grabbed, and held.
Max carried the baby back to his chair, held her on his lap. Smiling.
Immaculata stood watching him, hands on hips. 'Max!' she snapped, stamping her foot. He ignored her, watching me.
Immaculata sighed. 'When I was pregnant, he'd do that all the time. He said the baby could hear him. When she came out of my body, he made everyone be quiet. He waited until she was nursing . . . Then he clapped his hands like that. When she moved - when she heard him - I thought he was going to burst, he was so happy.'
'She recognized his voice,' I said.
'Sure. That's what he said.'
'What else could it be?'
'I think' - she looked at her husband - 'I think he was afraid our baby would be born deaf.'
'Was Max born deaf?'
'I never asked him,' she said, a slight warning tone in her voice.
He was my brother. I had earned the right to know. Earned it in a prison cell. I pointed at Max. Made a gesture as if I was rocking a baby. Pointed at him again. At my ear.
His face went hard, eyes slitted, mouth a straight line. He shook his head. No.
I opened my hands. 'How?'
Max gently picked up his baby, carried her back over to the floor, put her down. Kissed her. He stood between Immaculata and me. Pointed to himself again. A fist flashed into his palm so quickly I only saw the vapor trail. A sharp crack. He pointed to his ear. Held his palm thigh-high. A little child. His hand became a claw, snatched something, lifted it off the ground. Threw it against the wall. Walked away. Pointed to himself again.
He wasn't born deaf.
I tapped my heart twice, bowed my head. My eyes felt funny.
Max pointed at Flower, playing by herself on the floor. Reached his hand across the table. Immaculata put her hand in his. He circled his thumb and forefinger. Okay. Okay, now.
Yeah. He was ahead of the game.
I took a sip of the ginger ale. Lit another smoke. I held my palms close together, not touching. A meeting.
Max did the same. The palms became fists.
I shrugged. Maybe. Who knows?
I pointed at him. At myself. Waved a pointing finger. A meeting outside. In the street.
He looked a question.
I rubbed my first two fingers and thumb together. Money. Maybe a job.
Max hissed an inhale through his nose.
I shook my head. Not cocaine. I made the sign of injecting something into my arm. Shook my head again. Not heroin. Held an imaginary joint in my mouth, triple-inhaled fast. Shook my head again. Not marijuana.
Max took a dollar from his pocket. Held up three fingers.
I shook my head again. Not funny-money.
Immaculata watched us, like a spectator at a tennis match. Waiting for the punch line.
Max pointed a finger, cocked his thumb. I told him no again. Not guns. I weaved my fingers in the air, making an hourglass. Women.
His face went hard again as he held his hand chest-high, asking.
I put my palm to my forehead, like a salute, measuring for him. Not kids. I made a gesture like I was talking to someone, negotiating. Showed money changing hands. I took some cash from my pocket, put it on the table. Made one big pile with a single bill off to the side. Pocketed the pile. Pushed the remaining bill across the table to my left. Made the hourglass sign again. Her share.
Max circled his hands around his head, tilted a hat brim forward.
I nodded. A pimp.
Max smiled. He made a gesture like he was pulling a wristwatch off. Pulled rings off fingers. Reached inside his shirt for a wallet.
I shook my head. Not a shakedown. Not a rough-off. I held my palms together again, not touching. Just a meeting. Okay?
He nodded.
I pointed at my watch. Made an 'I don't know' gesture. I'd let him know when it was going down.
The baby cried. Immaculata went over to her, picked her up, and sat her down on her lap to nurse. I bowed to Max, to Immaculata, to my brother's baby.
I went down the stairs to my car, thinking of Flood. Back to being alone.
22
I went through the mail back in the office. The usual stuff. Congenital defectives replying to my ad promising 'south of the border' opportunities for 'qualified adventurers.' Most of the mercenary action is in Central America now; the Cubans have made it real clear that Africa isn't the promised land. The good scams concentrate on 'training exercises.' There's decent money in stinging maladroits who want to dress up in camouflage gear and run around the New Jersey swamps learning how to 'survive.' I don't run one of the camps - I don't want to meet any of my customers face to face. But, for a reasonable fee, I'm always happy to process their applications.
The pedophile letters always have P.O. boxes of their own for return addresses. One was neatly typed on creamy bond paper, the monogram 'CX' engraved in one corner. 'l'm always interested in the real thing. Especially discipline, golden showers, and snuff. I hope we can be friends.' I put the letter aside. If it wasn't from a Postal Inspector, I had a genuine freak - the kind who expected to pay for his fun. Scumbags. They always manage to get what they pay for. Sometimes I get lucky; then they pay for what they get.
The rest of the mail was replies to our new series of personal ads. We run them everyplace - from literary journals to hard-core slime-sheets. Variations on the same theme: young girl, serving a prison sentence, getting out soon. Lonely, broke, needs a friend.
Honey Blaine is the sweet young girl's name. If any of the suckers bothered to write directly, they'd find an 'H. Blame, #86-B-9757,' doing time at Bedford Hills. Just the way it said in the ad. Honey would set them straight right away. She'd explain that she couldn't write the kind of letter she'd really like to: the prison censors wouIdn't
