work. He warned one of my people off. Broke his legs. Some other things happened, and now it's me he's looking for.'
Morelli glanced at my left hand.
'Yeah,' I said. 'Like that. We're off the record now. Way off, okay?'
'Okay.'
'A man got killed last night. The cops matched his prints to the switch-car for the Ghost Van.'
'Yeah . . . ?'
'The guy that was killed, this karate-freak was with him when he bought it. It won't make the papers.'
'Where do I come in?'
'We got two pieces left. Why the Ghost Van in the first place? What's it doing out there? That's my piece. Here's yours: where's the money?'
'What money?'
'There's always money. Somewhere, there's always money. This whole operation cost a bundle - somebody's scoring.'
'I read the clips myself. It sounds like a sicko trip to me.'
'You're reading it wrong. I know it. Let me do that bit, it's not for you.'
'What's mine?'
'Sin City. Who owns it? Who's watching it? There's something about that place that ties it up. This karate- freak. Mortay. Nobody knows where he lives. But that's where he fought the duel. I'll work it through. I'm close now. I know it.'
'I have to sit on the fingerprint story?'
'Yeah. But you're in on the kill when it all comes down. My word on it. No matter what happens, you'll get the whole story.'
'First.'
'From the horse's mouth.'
'How much time I got?'
'Less than I got. And I got none.'
He shook hands again, moved off.
I watched the street for a minute. Then I stepped on the uptown bus.
120
The Plymouth was where I left it. In some neighborhoods, I worry about amateurs trying to strip it for parts - in Yuppieville, the only danger is that some citizen will want it towed away as an eyesore.
I headed for the Bronx on automatic pilot, still working the puzzle in my head. Pulling the pain into a laser point to burn through the haze.
The junkyard looks the same, day or night. Terry walked past the dogs, motioning me to shove over. He got behind the wheel. 'I know the way,' he said, steering carefully through the mine field until we pulled up outside a row of corrugated-iron sheds. The kid drove right in. I stood to the side, watching him jockey a couple of wrecks back and forth, filling up the area. In five minutes, the Plymouth had disappeared.
We walked through the yard, heading for the Mole's bunker. Terry bummed a cigarette. 'Shouldn't you be going to school?' I asked him, handing it over.
'I am,' the kid said.
The Mole was waiting for us. 'What kind of car do you need?'
'Something that won't make people look twice.'
'Big car? Fast?'
'Doesn't matter.'
He turned to Terry. 'Get the brown Pontiac.' The kid took off.
I sat down next to the Mole. If I waited for him to ask questions, I'd do a life sentence in the junkyard.
'Thanks for the car, Mole.' He grunted, disinterested.
The kid rolled up. The Pontiac was a couple of years old. A chocolate-brown four-door sedan. A nice, clean, boring commuter's car. It had New York plates, a fresh inspection sticker.
'Registration's in the glove compartment. Insurance card too,' Terry said.
'Good work.' If I got dropped, I'd tell the cops I borrowed the car from a guy I met in a bar. The owner would never show up to claim it, and the Pontiac wouldn't be on any hot-car list.
I lit a smoke. 'Mole, I need to talk to you for a minute.'
'Talk.'
'The kid . . .'
'He has to learn,' the Mole said.
'I'm working on something. The wheels came off last night. This guy's looking for me -I'm looking for him.'
The Mole tapped my left hand. 'What's that?'
'Grenade.'
'I have better stuff.'
'It's okay for now. That's not what I need.'
The Mole waited. Terry opened his mouth to ask a question, caught the Mole looking at him, shut it down.
'There's a tie-in to this whole mess I told you about before. I think it's inside a building. Times Square, on Eighth. Maybe the basement. I'm having some things checked out now.' I dragged deep on the smoke. The Mole and the kid sat like twin toads.
'Can you get inside the building for me?'
Terry laughed. It was like asking Sonny Liston if he could punch.
'I'm hot. This freak, Mortay, he's got the area wired. He sees me, I'm gone. I'm not ready for him yet. I can't go in with you.'
The Mole shrugged.
'And you can't use Max for backup. He's out of this until it's over.'
'Why?'
'I met the freak. Face to face. He wants Max, says he'll take out the baby to make Max fight. Mama sent him out of town for a few weeks.'
'He knows?'
'No.'
The Mole wiped his hands on his greasy jumpsuit. 'You want something from inside?'
'Just a look around. A good look.'
'When?'
'I'll get back to you. But soon, okay?'
'Okay.'
I stomped out my cigarette. 'You can't take out the electricity. It's right in the middle of the cesspool. Takes a lot of juice to run all that neon.'
The Mole turned to Terry. 'Get the master-blaster,' he said.
I followed the Mole to the entrance of his bunker. There's a network of tunnels under the junkyard, shored up with I-beams. He led me down some steps. Bright light ahead. Terry came up behind us.
The Mole pointed ahead. 'Streetlight,' he said. 'Like they have outside. Turns on at night - goes off in the daytime. You know how it works?'
'Con Edison?'
'No. Infrared sensor. When it gets light out, the sensor reads it. Shuts itself off.'
'So?'
