Sacrifice

Ten-thirty in the morning, most of the citizens already at work. A man and a woman came up the path, wearing matching shorts and jogging jerseys. Even had the same numbers on the back. Cute. Pansy sat next to me as I lit a cigarette. The woman grimaced disapproval as they pranced by.

A white stretch limo purred past, the back windows blacked out. 'Very subtle, Carlos,' I thought to myself, dragging on the cigarette, watching like I'd been taught. By now, I knew what was in the limo. One of the Prof's pack worked in the detailing shop where Carlos' driver brought the car in every week for sweetening. Cellular phone, color TV with VCR, fax machine, hand-rubbed teak bar with cut-crystal decanters, cashmere throw rugs on the blue leather seats, a pullout mirror so el jefe's girlfriends could check their makeup before they hit the clubs. A hidden compartment in a hollowed-out door panel. Not for drugs: Carlos didn't touch the extra- strength dreamdust he peddled. No tiny rocks of crack for this boy— he dealt in weight. You want to cut it yourself, step on it, bake it, fry it, that's up to you.

It always worked the same way. The limo would glide to a stop— a man on a bike would pedal up alongside, a nylon gym bag slung over his left shoulder. The window would whisper down as the biker held the bag open. Something would drop in and off he'd go.

By now, we knew where the transfer-man went. Steaming along the bicycle path like he was leading the Tour de Chump, he'd leave the park and merge with the street traffic. A car would pull up alongside him. Sometimes a sedan, sometimes a wagon. Once it was a panel truck. A hand would reach out from the passenger side, pluck the bag from his shoulder.

Once we had it down just right, it would be our hand reaching for the cash.

The Prof was somewhere in the park, his pack scattered around. Hard-souled homeboys, paying their tuition to the master, OJT on the highwire. One slip and it's Attica.

I patted Pansy's sleek head, sitting next to her on the grass, back to myself.

73

'What kind of dog is that?'

She was a chunky, freckle-faced woman, reddish-brown hair bursting in all directions from under the sweatband around her head, wearing a plain gray sweatshirt over blue bicycle pants, slate-colored running shoes. Little pug nose, china-blue eyes.

'A Neapolitan mastiff,' I said.

'I never saw one before. Are they rare?'

'She is. The world's finest dog, aren't you, girl?' Pansy grinned happily, probably thinking of a marrow bone, how they cracked in her jaws before she got to the sweet center.

'What're you doing here?'

I looked hard into her innocent eyes, wondering how old she was.

'Exercising my dog— she needs room to run.'

'You let that big dog off the leash?'

'Meaning I don't look like I run with her?'

'You're not dressed for it.' She chuckled.

'I'm on my way to work.'

'What do you do?' Hands on hips, tip of her tongue just poking past her lips.

I looked up at her, face flat. 'What do you do?'

'I'm a hit-woman,' smile slashing across her broad face. 'Trying to kill this cellulite.' Smacking the back of one thigh.

'I hope you don't overdo it.'

'Why?'

'Women do that. You all have a mass psychosis about weight.'

'If we do, it's men who gave it to us.'

'Not guilty,' I said, trying a smile.

'That's what they all say,' she shot back, pulling her sweatshirt over her head, tying it around her waist. Her breasts flared under a white T-shirt as she arched her back.

I lit a cigarette. Her nose didn't wrinkle.

'Could I pat your dog?' she asked.

'Only if she likes you,' I told her.

'How would I know?'

'If she likes you, she'll…Wow! Look at that,' I said, marveling at how Pansy lay down in response to my hand signal.

'That means she likes me?'

'Sure.'

She dropped to her knees on the grass, stroking Pansy expertly, talking to her.

'You have a dog?'

'I had a dog. Blackie. When I was a kid. I still miss him.'

Pansy's slab of a tongue lolled from her wide mouth, enjoying the attention.