Sacrifice

'You get the divers yet?' I asked her.

'Couple, three days,' she said.

'What I asked for…?'

'Your turn to pay the check,' she said.

98

Lola opened the trunk of her Reatta. I transferred the package to the Plymouth.

'Is she married?' I asked, nodding my head toward Wolfe, sitting in the front seat.

Lola held her finger to her lips in a 'ssssh' gesture.

99

Back in my office, I took a look. Carefully unwrapped the layers of plastic, bracing myself for the smell. It didn't come.

The juju bag looked like it hadn't been touched. Somehow smaller than when I'd first seen it, not as menacing lying on my desk.

Pansy poked her nose over the desktop, trying to see what I was doing. I told her to go to her place. She ignored me. Snarled— a higher pitch than I'd heard before.

I still didn't want to touch it.

100

There's places even zombies won't go. I walked to the station at Chambers Street, slipped into the underground. Dropped a token into the slot. The Exit door was propped open— most of the citizens just walked through without paying. Social protest, like the yuppies who throw Israeli shekels into the Exact Change baskets on the highway. Sure.

It didn't look like rain, but I carried a little red umbrella— the kind you can compress to baton size. A real piece of junk— so cheap that one of the ribs had worked itself loose— one pull and it would come right out in my hand. The tip was real sharp.

At West Fourth, I changed to the F train. Got a seat next to an old man who looked like he snorted interferon— pinch-faced, thinning hair nicely parted at the back to reveal dime-sized dandruff flakes. He opened a copy of the Times, spreading it across my face. His hands were liver-spotted, nails long and yellowing, curving at the tips. He smelled like his life.

The train picked up speed, rocking on the rusty tracks, overloaded with human cargo, paradise for the rubbers and the gropers. And the boys who carried box cutters to slice wallets free of clothing. If the air conditioning was on, it never had a chance.

The old man slammed a sharp elbow into my chest, shoving for more room, making high-pitched grunting noises, rattling his newspaper, flakes flying off his skull like greasy snow.

A good-sized Puerto Rican woman got on at Thirty-fourth, a plastic shopping bag from a drugstore chain in one hand, using it as a purse. She was wearing a white uniform of some kind, white flats with thick soles, white stockings. Coming from work. She worked her way over to a pole in the subway car, leaned against it gratefully.

I saw my chance.

Caught her eye, rose to my feet, my back to the rest of the humans, bowing slightly, gesturing with my hand like an usher showing a customer to her seat. There was maybe eighteen inches of seat showing— she dropped into it just as the vicious old man slid over to close the gap. She pancaked him like he was Play-Doh— the Times went flying, a thin shriek came out of his mouth. After that, they fought in silence.

My money was on the right horse. The old man finally extricated himself, stumbled off to another part of the subway car, reeking hate.

The Surrogate Ninja Body Slam— it doesn't always work, but when it does, it's a thing of beauty.

101

I got off the train at Rockefeller Center, stepped out and walked back along Sixth to Forty-second. It wouldn't be dark for hours, but clots of teenagers were already on patrol. 'Driving the Deuce,' they call it, cruising Times Square, eyes lusting into the windows full of things: electronic gear, overdose jewelry, flashy clothes, battery- powered body parts. Down here, the only culture is Cargo Cult.

I had more pieces to put together before I brought Wolfe to meet Luke. The library had signs all around— the Campaign to Combat Illiteracy.

They should have asked me to be a consultant. I learned to read, really read, in prison. The Prof told me you could steal more money with a briefcase than with a pistol. I know that's true— but I never seem to get it right.

When I came back outside, it was just getting dark. I called Bonita at the place she works— told her I'd come by later, take her home.

102

Almost four in the morning when I stepped out of Bonita's building. Lighter, not happier. She'd made sweet little come-noises in her bed, following the script.

I lit a cigarette to scan the street, feeling the night shift. I'm not usually a target, but predators work the same way lonely losers do in singles bars— the closer it gets to quitting time, the more desperate they are to make a connection.

Almost to my car when a van prowled up on my right. I stepped behind the fender of a parked car, reaching inside my jacket when I saw what the van was tracking…a woman in a red dress slit up one side, walking unsteadily, like she was drunk. A street snatch is high-risk— maybe the van held a pack of gambling beasts, out to gang-rape Lady Luck. Or maybe I spent too much time on the dark side, manipulated by memories.

'Linda! Wait for me!' I yelled, loud enough to make her turn around.

The van took off.