Sacrifice

friends.'

Wolfe's face was upturned, fingers absently stroking her cheek. A fire blazed to one side: Rocco finally got the barbecue going. The flames caught the white wings in Wolfe's dark hair. She didn't say anything, waiting.

'Your true friends,' I told her. 'Sometimes, even the closest of friends, even brothers and sisters, they can disagree. Before, you told me to take my time. That's easy to say, hard to do. Time. Hard to do. The State took my time from me. More than once. You know about that. It did me some good. Not the kind of good they meant. It scared me, but not so bad that I'd kiss ass to stay out. I had time— the time they made for me. I learned some things. Things about myself. Things about the way things work. You understand what I'm telling you?'

'No.'

'Yes, you do. Some things need time. This…thing…between you and your sisters, it needs time.'

'How much time?' Quick, no playing around, right to the center of it. Just Wolfe now— her people nearby but distanced.

'Couple of weeks.'

'No way.'

'The kid is safe.'

'It's not him I care about. He's a killer. I should've dropped him the first time.'

'He's nine years old.'

'Everyone is, once.'

'Everybody that gets to be ten. He's not a kid…that's what you're thinking. And you're right. Half right, anyway. He's not a kid, he's not a man either. Something else.'

Wesley. 'You're still a man,' I told him, listening as he described a murder-mutilation. A message to his enemies. 'I'm a bomb,' the monster said.

And that's the way he went out.

'How do you know?' Wolfe asked, leaning toward me.

'I know. I paid the tuition, passed the course.'

She flashed a quick grin at me, throaty, husky-soft voice. 'Donde esta el dinero? '

The way I answered her question years ago. When she challenged me to say something in Spanish.

'There's no money in this. It would take me too long to tell you why. Even if you think I'm on a scam, you know your sisters aren't.'

'Truth, justice, and the American way?'

'Truth, justice, and revenge.'

'You said enough to get locked up already, pal.' Rocco. Leaning forward, intruding.

Wolfe gave him a look. Patted her dog some more.

'You ever notice Bruiser's eyes?' I asked her. 'They look straight ahead. The birds he guards, they look out each side. You know why?'

'Bruiser's a predator. The birds are prey.'

'Not his prey, though.'

She dragged deep on her cigarette. 'Two weeks,' she said. 'Then he gets brought in.'

I nodded.

'That's your word?' she asked.

I bowed confirmation.

55

I crossed over the Kosciuszko Bridge, heading south for Brooklyn. Slag yards underneath to my right, yawning black, spot-fires spurting. Suicides, they never jump off this bridge— water tells a better lie about what's waiting. Past them, way off in the distance, Manhattan neon told its own lies.

Two weeks.

Luke and Burke. Lurk.

I'd told Wolfe I knew. Didn't tell her how I'd learned.

1971. Lowell, Massachusetts, a struggling mill town. Sitting in a mostly empty downtown parking lot in the front seat of a dull brown Ford, stolen a couple of hours earlier. License plates looked good— they were two halves of two different plates, welded together with the seam at the back. Beer cans on the dashboard, radio turned down low. Two guys taking a break from their construction job. Me and Whitey, waiting. Watching.

Every Friday, a young woman walked past that parking lot. It was a joy to watch her. Pretty-proud, long brown hair bouncing on her shoulders, matching the swing in her hips. Not a traffic-stopper, but a juicy fine thing just the same.

We'd been watching her every Friday for a month. Watching her carry a leather bag over one shoulder. Her outfit changed each time, but the leather bag stayed the same.

She'd walk back the same way. Past us. With the leather bag heavier then. Her boss made the payroll in cash