She smiled her approval of my manners, ladled more soup into my bowl.
A shadow fell across the table. Max. He shouldered in next to me, bowing to Mama at the same time. She opened her mouth to yell something at the waiters, but one of them was there with a bowl for Max before she got a word out. She said something to the waiter anyway. 'Smartass' sounds the same in Cantonese.
It was like old times, for a while. Yonkers had added a new feature to the evening program— some of the races were carded for an extra distance past the traditional mile…from a sixteenth to a quarter. I explained my foolproof, surefire, can't-miss handicapping system— the longer the race, the better the chance for the fillies against the colts. Class tells in the long run, and the female side of any species is built for endurance. They listened the way they always do: Max fascinated, Mama bored to narcolepsy. Mama isn't a gambler— her idea of a sporting event is a fixed fight.
Max had the racing form in his pocket and we went over it together. Mama politely excused herself, nodding toward the front door. In Mama's business, customers didn't use the front door. But every once in a while some ignorant yuppie would ignore the filthy tables, the food-splattered walls, the flyspecked menus, and the rest of the unappetizing ambiance and actually order food. It was Mama's job to make sure they never came back— people like that interfered with business. A health inspector once visited the kitchen, tried to shake Mama down. A small gratuity was expected. Otherwise, he said, they'd have to close the place down for a while until it was brought up to snuff. Maybe even publish a notice in the paper that the Board of Health had found violations. Mama gave him a blank look. When the Health Code Violation notice was printed in the paper, she pasted it in the window. The health inspector never came back.
I scanned the form the way I always do, looking for the intangibles, that combination telling me a horse was ready to break out, overcome its past. Everything important but the breeding, that's overrated. I'd like to own a trotter someday. They don't cost that much, and I've scored heavy enough to pull it off more than once. But you can't own a horse if you've got a felony record, so that lets me out. I could open a day-care center, though.
Finally, I settled on a six-year-old mare. She was shipping in from the Meadowlands, a mile track with a long stretch. She always ran from off the pace, so conventional wisdom says she'd come up short transferring to Yonkers, a half-mile oval with a real short way home. But I figured the extra eighth of a mile in the fifth race would give her all the space she'd need. Morning line was 6— 1. I put a pair of fifties on the counter, pointed to Max. He matched it. I got up to call Maurice. Max can do a lot of things, but he can't telephone a bookie.
Max didn't let me pass, blocking the booth, his hands working, asking me to explain things again.
I went through it again— the Patience card is always in my deck. Caught his eyes, made the sign for 'okay?' His face was expressionless, body posture relaxed. I shoved lightly against him. Good luck. Finally, he held up an open palm like a traffic cop: Stop.
I hunched my shoulders, opened my hands: Why?
He pointed at my watch— almost four in the afternoon, shook his head. Not time yet? I looked over to Mama at her register, couldn't catch her eye.
The hell with it. I lit a smoke. Max took out a deck of cards, shifted out of the booth, and sat down across from me. Dealt out a hand of gin. First card up from the pack was the ace of spades. No knock, results doubled. I made a gesture like writing something on paper. Max pulled the last score sheet from his pocket, pushed it over to me. He was into me for more money than I could steal in a lifetime. We'd been playing for years and years— the fool was going to hang in until he got even or pass the weight on to his daughter when he retired.
I got lost in the game. Like I was back inside, where killing time was an achievement. Max reached for a card. Mama came up behind him, tapped him hard on the shoulder. He turned to look at her. She shook her head side to side, emphatically. Max ignored her advice the way he used to ignore the Prof when we all jailed together. Tossed me the four of hearts. Gin.
I totaled up the score. The Mongolian was down another two grand and it was only…damn! Six-thirty.
The front door swung open. Immaculata— Lily and Storm close behind. They walked to the booth. Mac kissed Max, bowed her thanks. Max slid out of the booth, his job done.
51
Immaculata slid in next to me, Lily and Storm took the facing bench.
'What is this?' I asked Lily. 'A surprise party?'
'We couldn't wait to get you on the phone. Mac called Mama, told Max to have you wait. We had to talk to you. Now.'
'Okay. What?'
The dark-haired woman leaned forward, all the juice gone from her voice. 'There's been another murder. Luke was in a foster home, in Gramercy Park. They left him alone for just a few minutes. He was watching television with another baby, three years old. When the foster mother came back inside, the baby was dead. Face all blue. She thought the baby had choked, called the paramedics.'
'The call came in to our hospital,' Storm interrupted. 'We ran over there, to make sure…?'
'Where's Luke?'
Lily ignored my question. 'The paramedics said the child hadn't choked on anything…marks on his throat, like he'd been strangled. Luke said he was watching the TV, didn't see anything. He was just watching the cartoons.'
'You think the same people…?'
'Only a ghost could've gotten into that room, Burke. They're on the ninth floor.'
'There's fire escapes. Balconies. There's always a way in. I know a guy went up twelve stories with a ladder he made out of dental floss. Who knew he was there?'
'I don't know. It doesn't matter. Wolfe wants Luke.'
'What d'you mean, she
'Nine,' Lily said. 'If his birth certificate is the truth.'
'Where is he now?'
