I sat on the Mole's chair, lit a cigarette, eyes half–closed, centering myself, dropping down in my mind to where I could do the work. I finished the smoke, breathing shallow. After I tossed it away, I swept the grounds until I saw a piece of chrome bumper from a derelict car. It was glinting in the sun, a spark in shadow. I focused on the spark, narrowing my vision, converting all the street sounds to white noise. I got quieter and quieter inside. When I closed my eyes, I could still see the spark of light. I went into it.
Morales hated me. Hated me for scamming McGowan— had me marked for that house of freaks in the Bronx too. Maybe some other stuff. He was a grudge–loving dinosaur pit bull. He'd stay on the case forever. And once he got his jaws locked, he'd never drop the bite.
If it was an accident that he ran across my path, why would he muscle over to Targets? What did he want to know?
That was one gap.
Belinda. She'd been on my case for a long time now. Calling, leaving messages. But she wasn't pushing it. Until now Coming by Mama's joint, letting me know what she knew. Why? Why now?
Another gap.
The gaps were too big for me to fill with logic, so I let my other side work, trying to feel what I couldn't calculate.
What it felt was bad. Treacherous bad.
The Mole has a super–safe phone down in his bunker. He tried to explain it to me once…something about a blue box into the 800 loop and then back out. I never did understand it.
I walked over to the entrance of the bunker, called 'Mole' softly. The Mole looks harmless but he's so smart that he's crazy with it— you don't want to spook someone like that.
After a minute or so, he appeared at the top of the stairs, his skin as underground–pale as always, eyes unreadable behind the thick Coke–bottle lenses, his form shapeless under a dirt–colored jumpsuit. He answers people who call his name the same way he answers his phone— with silence.
'I need to use the phone for a few minutes, okay?'
He didn't answer. Just turned his back and started down the stairs. I followed. The underground bunker was illuminated with diffused lighting, like an aquarium. The Mole went to his workbench, started fumbling with some small vials of liquid. The phone was near the wall. I picked it up, got a dial tone, tapped out the number for Targets. The phone made a whirring sound, then a series of rapid–fire beep–tones as it worked its way into the loop and then back to Manhattan. It rang four times before it was picked up.
'Targets,' a woman's voice said.
'Can I speak to Nate, please?' I asked the voice.
'Who should I tell him— ?'
'A friend. From Upstate.'
It was maybe half a minute before I heard Nate's voice. 'What?'
'It's me,' I said. 'I got your message. About somebody asking for me.'
'Yeah. Right. So when do I get— ?'
'It's on the way. You'll have it tonight. What can you tell me about the guy?'
'Big man. Not tall, he
'Yeah.'
'Latino. P.R. maybe, who can tell? Big chest. No neck. Growls when he talks.'
'What'd he want?'
'Do I know you? You been around? You come there a lot?'
'He say my name?'
'Yeah. He flashed the tin, didn't make no secret of it.'
'He leave any kind of message?'
'Yeah. Said he'd be back. I told him I take care of the captain— I'm not supposed to get no street rollers coming around. He just laughed. Only not 'ha ha,' you understand?'
'Yeah. Thanks, Nate.'
I hung up on his 'When do I— ?'
I called Mama's. 'It's me,' I told her when she picked up my pay phone in the back of the restaurant. 'Can you tell Max I need him to drop off five small at Targets? The guy's behind the bar. Named Nate. Fat guy, going bald.'
'Where Targets?' she asked.
I gave her the address. Then asked, 'Mama, this lady cop, what did she say?'
'Say very, very important. You call her.'
'The same number she's always leaving?'
'Yes. Same number. Say anytime after four o'clock.'
I looked at my watch. Seven–fifteen already. 'Four o'clock when?' I asked.
'She not say. Walk out, fast.'
'Thanks, Mama.'
I crossed back over the Triborough into Manhattan, thinking how badly things had changed. Used to be, when I was leaving a place like Hunts Point, I could feel the muscles in the back of my neck relax as I crossed the border into safer territory. No more. Now the muscles stay tight— all the time. There's no safe harbor in this city, no neighborhood where anyone really feels secure. There's a thin vicious mist over the city, the whole place poisoned by that red–zone aggression–terror mix. That's another reason I don't carry a gun anymore— it makes you too brave. I know what being brave costs— I'd emptied that account the same time I emptied that last clip…in the basement of blood I walked away from in the Bronx.
I took the FDR downtown, darkness coming now. I found a parking spot on Lex, walked a couple of blocks until I got to the building I was looking for. The entranceway was deserted. I pushed the button for 11–G, my mouth near the intercom in case they were going to screen the clients. Nothing came out of the intercom, but the main door buzzed open.
I took the elevator to the eleventh floor, walked the length of the threadbare carpet to the last apartment on the right. The door was painted matte black, its flatness broken only by the letter 'G' in gilt and a heavy steel plate surrounding the lower lock, protecting the deadbolt. I pushed the tiny pearl–white button on the door frame, heard chimes ring inside.
I stood back a couple of feet to give whoever was working the peephole a good look at me. The door was opened by a short, skinny man wearing a black suit with red suspenders over a white shirt. A wispy mustache made him look even more weasely.
'Can I do something for you?' he asked.
'I'm here to see Mojo Mary,' I answered.
'You have an appointment?'
'No.'
'She know you?'
'Yes. Name's Burke.'
'Chill,' the man said, closing the door in my face.
He was back in another minute. This time he stepped aside, waved me to a white Naugahyde couch in the front room, facing the door. I sat down, waited. The man disappeared to my left. A tall brunette in a peach–colored teddy walked across the room on my right, heading for another door. She winked at me, gave her hips an extra shake— a reflex action. I knew her— by reputation, anyway Word is she was fired from her job as a porno actress because she couldn't memorize the lines.
The man came back with Mojo Mary in tow. She's half Cajun, half Lao— on any given day, she'll tell you a different story about how that happened. Her skin is a rosy bronze color, her glossy black hair long and straight; her teeth are so white they don't look real. She was wearing a man's red pajama top with the top buttons undone. It fell to mid–thigh, showing off the fishnet stockings she wore with red spike heels.
'Hello, stranger,' she said, smiling.
'How you doing?' I responded, getting to my feet.
