Sacrifice

fat man's body. One missed, the other was a direct hit to the belly. The fat man staggered as Max rolled to his feet, the Mongolian's right fist hooking inside the fat man's extended hand, driving through, spinning, his back against the fat man's chest as he turned, launching the left, chopping down into the exposed neck.

It was over. The fat man held his hand against the strike-point, rubbing the feeling back into his neck. It wasn't broken— Max had pulled the shot.

They bowed to each other. Barks of approval from the crowd. Max pointed to the fat man. Held up his hand, fingers splayed. Touched his thumb, pointed to the fat man. Then his index finger. Same thing. He did each finger in turn, until he came to the little finger. Pointed at himself. Held his chest, panted heavily. Pointed at himself again— held up the thumb. Pointed at the fat man. Held his opponent's hand in the air. Telling the crowd that the fat man had fought four men before Max had his chance— if Max had gone first, the fat man would have won.

I was proud of the lie— so proud to be his brother.

17

Nobody clapped Max on the back on the way out of the dojo. It wasn't that kind of joint.

The warrior touched the face of my wristwatch, moved his hand in a 'come on' gesture. Wherever we were going, we were running close.

In the car, Max made the sign for SAFE. Lily's joint on the edge of the Village.

I made a 'what's going on?' sign. He held up one finger. Patience.

We motored through Chatham Square. A flock of gray pigeons clustered around the monument set in a tiny triangle of concrete at the intersection of East Broadway and the Bowery. A white pigeon landed in their midst, bulling his way through to the best scavenging. A hard bird, honed by the stress of survival in a world where his color marked him.

18

I stashed the Plymouth in back of Lily's place, followed Max inside. Her office is at the far end of the joint. The door was open. Lily was at her desk, her Madonna's face framed by the long black hair. Another woman was with her, a young woman with dirty-blonde hair, big eyes, a sarcastic mouth. Sitting straight in her chair with an athlete's posture. Maybe eight months pregnant. They were deep in conversation. Max clapped his hands— they looked up.

Max bowed to the women, they returned his greeting. He held up my wrist so they could see the watch.

'Thank you, Max,' Lily said. 'Right on time.'

'What is this?' I asked Lily.

She ignored my question. 'You know Storm, right, Burke?'

'Sure.' Storm was the head of the Rape Crisis Unit at the downtown hospital. Another of the warrior women who made up Lily's tribe. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They're all some kind of sweet, and they can all draw blood.

'You really want to know?' Lily asked Storm. 'You're absolutely sure? Burke's never wrong…about this.'

Storm nodded.

'Show him,' Lily said. Storm extended her hand, palm up.

I sat on the desk, held her palm in my hands. 'This is the hand you write with?' I asked her.

'Yes.'

I looked closely. Saw the clear triangles emerging from the lines. Like the gypsy woman told me a long time ago. Intersecting triangles for female, open spikes for male.

'It'll be a girl,' I told her.

'Good!' Storm said. Then: 'Thank you. I didn't want the amnio, but Lily just had to know. It was making her crazy.'

I lit a cigarette. Lily made a face. Storm smiled. She smokes too. One cigarette a day, usually right after supper. No more, no less.

'What's the rest of it?' I asked Lily.

'How do you know there's more? Don't you think Storm's question was important?'

'Storm doesn't even think it's important,' I said. Watching her eyes, knowing I was telling the truth. 'And Max wouldn't have a tight time limit for what I just did.'

'I'll show you,' Lily said.

19

The small playroom has a window of one-way glass— it's a mirror on the inside. I looked through it and saw Immaculata, her long hair done up in a severe bun, wearing a bright orange smock. Max's woman, part Vietnamese, part she'll-never-know. I was there when they met. In the fallout from combat. A chubby baby crawled on the carpet in one corner. Flower, their little girl. Named for another little girl. One who hadn't survived. A tribute to Flood, the little blonde karateka who fought to avenge the baby's death. And left when her work was done.

Left me.

Half a dozen kids in the playroom. Running, jumping, scrawling with crayons on a giant piece of white poster board.

'That's him,' Lily said at my side. 'He's talking to Mac now. Luke, his name is.'

The boy looked about eight. Light brown hair, thin face, dark eyes. He was holding a pocket calculator in one hand, pointing at the display window, like he was explaining something.

I felt Storm slide in next to me on my other side. 'The police found him. In a room with his baby brother. Two years old. The baby had been hacked to death with a butcher knife. There was blood all over Luke, but he hadn't been touched, just a few surface scratches.'