Rocco nodded his head. 'That was you?' he asked me.
'Mr. Burke assisted in the investigation,' Wolfe said, cutting him off. 'He has a…
Rocco wouldn't let it go. 'You're a PI?'
'I'm just a working man. Once in a while, like Ms. Wolfe said, our paths cross. That's all there is.'
Floyd's eyes found me through the cigarette smoke. 'Burke. I heard about you.'
'Did you?'
A faint smile played across his mouth. He bowed his head slightly in my direction.
I got up to go. 'I'll fill them in,' Wolfe said.
12
Balanced. Centered, back to myself. Back from the sweet illusion of family I left in Indiana. No more part of Virgil's family than I was blind.
Illusions can make you jump to conclusions. Like off a bridge.
I have no home. I pitch my tent on rocky ground, a nomad, never planting a crop. I live by poaching. Stinging, scamming, stealing. Always ready to move along when the herd thins out.
I walk the line, but I draw my own. Hit and run. I've been a ground-feeder ever since I got out of prison the last time. A small-stakes gambler in crooked games.
No more hijacking, no more gunfighting. The scores are richer in the penthouse, but it's safer in the basement.
That's what I want— to be safe. When I was younger, I waded in, throwing hooks with both hands, looking for that one shot that would take out the other guy. TKO in the first round. I thought that would give me strength, then. Keep me safe.
But it was me who kept going down. No more. Now all I want is to go the distance, be standing at the end.
Standing up.
13
I nosed the Plymouth into the one-stall garage at the corner of the old factory. The landlord converted it to living lofts years ago. Made himself a nice bundle from sensitive artists with rich parents. I live on the top floor. You look at the building plans, all you'll see is storage space up there. The landlord owed me for something I didn't do— my office is the price.
He could always start charging rent— make me homeless. I could always make a phone call, whisper an address— and the people his coke-loving son sold to the
Pansy wasn't at her post when I let myself in the door. The beast was lazing on the couch, one massive paw draped over the edge, 140 pounds of brick-brained muscle, her light gray eyes flickering with just a trace of contempt.
'You glad to see me, girl?' I asked the Neapolitan mastiff.
She made a sniffing noise, like she smelled something bad on me. If I didn't know better, I would have thought the bitch copped an attitude because I'd worked with another woman.
'You want to go out?' I asked her, opening the back door to the office. Outside, a small iron fire escape, rusty and gnarled with age and neglect. From there, a shaky set of stairs to the roof. She ambled over and climbed up to her yard, ignoring me.
When she came back inside, I reached in my jacket pocket. Took out four orders of shish kebob in pita bread, individually wrapped in foil. They sell them on the street here. Along with watches, jeans, radios, necklaces, logo'd sweatshirts, street maps, handguns, videotapes, books, hot dogs, cocaine, flesh, and artwork. Pansy immediately whipped into a sitting position, slobber erupting from both sides of her gaping maw, watching me toss away the foil, squeeze the whole thing into a giant smelly, greasy ball.
'Still mad at me?' I asked her, holding the prize right in front of her snout.
She didn't move, rigid as a fundamentalist.
'Speak!' I told her, tossing it in her direction. Her first snap sent pieces flying all over the room. Her tail wagged madly as she chased down and devoured every last scrap.
I sat at the desk and watched her. When she was finished, she came over to me, put her bowling-ball-sized head in my lap, making gentle noises as I scratched behind her ears, blissed out.
They're all alike.
Sure.
14
I leafed through my mail. It's not delivered here— I keep PO boxes all over the city, open new ones all the time. I'd never go back to the latest group once this collection of scores was done.
A dozen or so responses to my latest ad in the freak sheets. Darla's only ten years old, but she's real pretty. She loves to have her picture taken, and her daddy's real good at it. You tell Daddy how you want to see Darla posed, and he'll send along some really delicious Polaroids. Five hundred bucks gets you a set of four— custom work is expensive. No checks.
The first loving correspondent wanted Darla in pink ribbons— and nothing else. Another wanted to see Darla disciplined. I didn't read the rest, just carefully separated the money orders, put them in a neat stack to one side.
I mail the original letters to a Customs agent I know in Chicago.
