“It’s just a … Did I insult you? If I did, I’m sorry. For me, it’s a term of affection. Like … ‘honey’ or something.”
“My language skills are not as complete as you appear to believe, Burke. But it does not seem the same.”
“The same as … what?”
“ ‘Honey’ might be what you call a waitress.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“I do not believe you would. I expressed it incorrectly. Let me try it from the other end. ‘Little girl.’ If it was in my language, and I had to translate it into English, it would come out as … ‘cherished.’ Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
“So you …?”
“I don’t know. It’s just an expression.”
“It is not just an expression,” she said, gravely. “And you
When we got back to the hotel, Gem ate one of her megameals, then announced she needed a nap.
The message light was flashing on the phone. The voice-mail system told me I had one message. When I retrieved it, all I got was the sound of fingers snapping, once.
From Max. Call Mama.
I switched fresh batteries into the cellular, put the old ones on recharge, then used the hotel phone to start the relay.
Nothing to do but wait, so I lay back on the couch and watched CNN with the sound off, reading the pop-up screens and practicing my lip-reading when one of the anchors came on.
The buzzing of the cellular brought me around—must have drifted off.
“Cop come,” Mama said.
“One cop?”
“Yes. You know him. Come here, many times.”
That wasn’t as clear as it sounded. A whole lot of professions fit “cop” in Mama’s vocabulary.
“Spanish guy? Cheap suit? Small eyes? Hard man?” I asked, not wanting to say a name on the phone.
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“Thumbprint.”
“I don’t—”
“Want
“But the cops’ve got all the—”
“From … surface. Say want to ‘lift’ …”
“He say why?”
“No.”
“Mama, you have …?”
“Sure. Have your old—”
“Okay. Do it.”
“You want Max?”
“Not yet. I don’t know anything yet.”
“But soon, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
It was dark by the time Gem came out of her room. She was wearing a black silk sheath with a mandarin collar, the black spikes with ankle straps over sheer stockings, hair flowing loose, carrying a small black patent-leather clutch bag. Not a trace of color besides black, except her skin.
“I cannot be certain when I will return,” she said, bending at the waist to kiss me softly on my neck.
“You have the cell number …?”
“Yes.”
“Look, I’m not doing anything now. Just waiting around. I could come along—”
“No, thank you,” she said, formally.
“I wouldn’t cramp your style or anything. Couldn’t I just be the … driver, or something?”
“It would be a mistake. Fear is a mistake.”
“I’m not—”
