Dead and Gone

down, counteracts the buck, see?”

“That sounds perfect.”

“But you have to be very close, now. Especially for that first shot. With this piece, you put one into a man, he will go down.”

“Die?”

“Anywhere in the body or the head, yes, mahn. An arm or a leg, it would … maybe. A solid hit, he would go into shock. But if the paramedics got there quick …”

“Okay. Fair enough.”

“You want hollowpoints? Hot loads on the powder, too?”

“Mercury tips.”

“Mercury tips, I do not like them, mahn. For small slugs, sure. They tear right on through, and the mercury is a good poison to leave behind. But the .357, nobody knows why, exactly, but it has the highest one-shot kill ratio of any of the handguns. There are bigger ones, but this one hits the hardest.”

“Just a little drop,” I told him. “For luck.”

“All right, mahn. So that would be one Python with—”

“Two,” I cut him off.

“Ah,” is all he said, getting it.

I spent every day working. For breaks, I stayed inside my head, trying to connect the dots.

I found out one thing I needed to know. The way I usually learn things—by making someone sad. Only this time it wasn’t me doing it to myself.

If Max or his wife, Immaculata, had any problems with me staying there, or even with the crew coming by all the time, they never let it slip.

I guess they never even said anything about me being there to their daughter, Flower. I’ve known her since the day she was born. The child spoke Vietnamese and French, thanks to her mother, and could sign back and forth with Max even faster than I could. Mama, who insisted the child, being her grandchild, was pure line-of-descent Mandarin back to before they put up the Wall, was teaching her one of the Chinese dialects. English she picked up from the rest of the world. Her impeccably polite manners were those of a warrior: Respect, not subservience. Understanding, not awe.

Sometimes Flower called me “uncle,” but that was only in the presence of strangers. She knew her parents and I were part of a family. A family of choice, the only kind us Children of the Secret ever trust. Only Mama insisted on a formal title. Very formal. It was “grandmother” in English, and whatever it was in the other languages seemed to satisfy her.

Max can read lips, but I never know how much he’s getting, so I always sign along when I talk. I was standing with my back to the beaded curtains that close off the dojo from the rest of the floor, pacing a little. Max stood across from me on the mat, watching, immobile as stone. I was telling him about where I was stuck.

I was just getting to the part about how I had been dealing with Dmitri long before it happened, middlemanning shipments of weapons he was selling. His clients were a crew of Albanians up in the Bronx who wanted to make a contribution to the Kosovo relief effort. Dmitri had the ordnance; I had the contacts. We did business, and business was good.

Suddenly, I heard, “Burke! Burke! You’re back!” and the sound of running footsteps. Flower burst through the curtains, ran a little bit past me, whirled, and went “Oh!” She froze, her eyes locked on my face. My new face. “I thought …” she said, her voice trailing off.

“It’s me, Flower,” I told her, keeping my voice soft and gentle.

“What happened? Oh, Burke, your face, what …?”

She started to cry then. I tried to take her to me, but she ran to Max. The Mongol scooped her up like she was cotton candy, held her close to him, communicating with tender touch. He must have seen it coming. Max maybe can’t hear, but he can feel vibrations as if his whole body was a tuning fork—I’ve seen him listen to music by putting his hands on the speakers. So he had to have known Flower’s footsteps.

And he must have known that her mother wouldn’t be far behind. When Immaculata swept into the room, one long red-lacquered fingernail leveled at his chest, Max quickly kissed Flower, then gently lowered her to the ground.

“What is wrong with you?” Immaculata said to him, voice quivering, her gesturing hands eloquent with anger.

Before Max could answer, she knelt and spoke directly to Flower. “It is Burke, child. Your Burke. Don’t be frightened. There was an accident. Burke was hurt. But he’s getting better now, all right?”

The little girl looked up at me. “It’s true,” I told her. “There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

“I’m not scared,” she said solemnly. “It looks like it … hurts you.”

“Nah. Let’s face it, I wasn’t all that good-looking to start with, right?”

But I was aiming at the wrong spot. That might have gotten a giggle from a teenager, but Flower was too young and too old to respond that way. “No man is as handsome as my father,” she said. “But you always looked … like … I don’t know … not like this.”

“I won’t always look like this, Flower. Promise.”

“I don’t care how you look,” she said, stamping her little foot. “I just don’t want you to hurt.”

Immaculata shot a glance at Max over the child’s shoulder. It was short of fatal, but not by a whole lot.