He lit a cigarette from my pack, letting the smoke bubble softly from his mouth, stroking his chin.
'The bag plays like juju, but the sound don't tie it down; It's all got two sides…Mojo hand, Little John the Conqueroo, black cat bone, working roots…that's why fools call some of it black magic…not just 'cause my people started it, but 'cause there's another kind. Some of it's like a church, but there's things you can't ask the Lord for, see?'
'You don't think it's connected?'
'No way to know, bro'. How big is the bag?' I showed him with my hands.
'Big enough,' he said.
40
I found a pay phone on the Upper West Side, called Wolfe on her private line.
'Yes?'
'It's me…you recognize my voice?'
'No. You must have the wrong number.'
The phone slammed down.
41
I threw in another quarter, dialed Storm's number.
'Rape Crisis Unit.'
I asked for her.
'Hello?'
'How's your little girl coming along?'
'My…Oh! Hi, Burke!'
Citizens don't think about security. 'I just called Wolfe. She hung up on me.'
'Now why would she…?'
'That's what I want to know.'
'You didn't call on the private line, did you?'
'Yeah, I did.'
'Oh. Well, Wolfe's been acting strange lately, like we told you. She told Lily she thinks that line is tapped.'
'So how do you talk to her? Only in person?'
'No, we call the switchboard. Wolfe says they can't run a tap on all the incoming calls without a live operator in place.'
'Thanks.'
42
'Special Victims Bureau.'
'May I speak to Ms. Wolfe, please?'
'Who shall I tell her is calling?'
'Juan Rodriguez. I'm a federal parole agent.'
'Please hold.'
A flat, uninflected voice came on the line. 'This is Wolfe.'
'It's me again.'
'How can I help you?' Same tone.
'I have something I'd like to show you. Something that may relate to a pending investigation.'
'Bring it in.'
'It's not that easy.'
'You know the Four Flags diner on Queens Boulevard? Right next to the motel on the south side?'
'Yes.'
'I eat lunch there around one-fifteen most days.'
'Today?'
'That's my plan. In this bureau, you never know…emergencies and all .
43
Wolfe's battered Audi pulled into the diner's parking lot, jouncing over the speed bumps. The car looked like it had been painted with rust, the windows streaked, front license plate dangling from the one remaining bolt. Lola next to her on the front seat, a dark mass moving in the back. The Rottweiler.
They left the dog in the car— didn't lock the doors.
I lit a smoke, waiting.
