'And you already got some,' I said.
'Look, I— '
'Drop it,' I told him. 'You had an order for hardware, you would have come to me yourself— we did business before. Then you would have marked it up, sold it right over to the chump without me ever knowing.'
'I— '
'But you wanted to stay out of the middle on this one, right? So it's one of two things: either you don't think this guy's good for the money or he's got you spooked.'
'I don't spook,' Saunders said, a hurt tone in his calm hustler's voice.
'How much did he pay you to set up the meet?'
'Five.'
'Half's mine.'
'How do you figure?'
'I'm not doing business with him, and neither are you. You stung him for five to make the meet. Later you'll tell him I couldn't pull it off. He won't be mad at me— I didn't take any of his cash. So you figure it's harmless…a nice score for a few hours' work.'
'If it was a score, it's
'You think I'm a fucking 800 number? Toll–free?'
'I was up front with you, Burke. Come on, no hard feelings. How does a grand strike you?'
'You told me five, he probably duked ten on you. Cut me a deuce we stay okay, you and me.'
'And if I don't?'
'You never know,' I said quietly.
Saunders reached into the side pocket of his safari jacket. Slowly, with two fingers. Pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Held it forward, offering me one.
'No thanks,' I told him. 'I don't smoke.'
'The last time I saw you, you did.'
'The last time you saw me, we were doing some real business.'
'Ah…he mused, firing up his smoke. 'Tell you what. I don't want hard feelings, all right? How about if I give you the deuce, but I throw in some information? Valuable information. You pay whatever it's worth, okay?'
'I'm listening.'
He stepped closer to me, dropping his voice. 'I've been working out of the city. Understand you were doing some work up there too. In Connecticut?'
I kept my face calm, waiting.
'A cop's on your trail, Burke. A lady cop. She was up there, asking around.'
'That's what cops do.'
'It doesn't concern you?'
'No. I never do anything to bother the locals.'
'Okay. Whatever you say. Just trying to do an old friend a favor.'
'I'll remember,' I said, holding out an open hand. For the money.
The creep with the sunglasses hadn't gone to prison alone. I had— more than once. But I never come that way to a meet. Max the Silent dropped out of the shadows, disdaining the rope ladder, landing as softly as moonlight on dark water.
Max is my partner. If I'd lit a cigarette while talking to Saunders, Max would have dropped on him like an anvil on an egg.
I pocketed seven fifty off the roll Saunders had finally handed over, gave the same amount to Max. The extra five would go into our bank.
Max nodded his acceptance. I heard the Range Rover pull away. Max was in motion before I was— he can't hear, but the vibrations of that big rig on the rotting boards of the old pier were so strong even I could feel them. Max glided to the warehouse door, looked outside.
When he nodded again, I followed him out the door.
My old Plymouth was parked on the other side of West Street, looking the way it always does— abandoned. I unlocked it and we both climbed inside.
I keyed the motor and we took off, heading for the bank.
We cruised by the front first. The white–dragon tapestry was in the window— All Clear. I stopped in the alley behind the restaurant. The seamlessness of the dirty gray wall was broken by a pristine square of white paint. Max's chop was inside the square, standing out in meticulous black calligraphy. You didn't have to read Chinese to understand it: No Parking. Ever.
The steel door to the back of the restaurant opened as we approached. A pudgy Chinese man stood in the opening, wearing a white chef's apron, a butcher axe in one hand. When he saw who it was, he stepped aside. I heard the door snap closed behind us.
We walked through the kitchen, past the bank of pay phones. Took my booth in the back, sat down.
Mama left her post at the cash register and came over to our table, snapping out some instructions in Cantonese. The waiter was way ahead of her— he vanished, then reappeared with a large tureen of hot–and–sour soup.
Mama served me and Max first, while she was still standing. Then she sat next to Max and used the ladle to fill her own bowl. Max and I each took the obligatory sip, made the required gestures of appreciation.
'We got— ' I started to say.
'Finish soup first,' Mama replied.
Okay. We drained our bowls, sat for a second helping. Worked that one more slowly, mixing in some dry fried noodles. The waiter came and exchanged our bowls for a blue glass ashtray.
'So?' Mama asked.
I handed her the five hundred. 'For the bank,' I told her.
'From both?' she wanted to know.
I nodded. Mama made the cash disappear. Max and I would each get two hundred dollars' credit in Mama's bank— the remaining 20 percent was her fee. The score was really too small to go through all that— we turned it over as a gesture of respect.
'That girl call again,' she told me.
I knew who she meant. The same lady cop Saunders told me about. Belinda Roberts. That was the name she'd told me one day in Central Park. I was tracking, setting up a job, had Pansy along with me for cover. Belinda was jogging along, a fine–looking woman with a careless mass of reddish–brown hair topping a curvy, muscular body. She said she liked my dog. Said she liked me too. Gave me a number, asked me to call.
I never did. When I saw her again, she was in the same place. It was Clarence who made her for a cop. She was in the park, working. Maybe undercover to catch a rapist, maybe on observation for a drug deal. Maybe working me. No way to tell.
No way…until she called the restaurant, asking for me. Asking for Burke. I'd never given her my right name, never gave her the number.
Lying Belinda. Persistent bitch. Whatever she wanted, she'd get tired before I would— I'm a sensei of patience, a Zen master at waiting.
Max coiled his fists, cocked his head— a boxer assuming his stance. Looked a question over at me.
I shook my head, tapped my watch. Too early.
'Good investment, Burke?' Mama asked.
I guessed Max had told her about the Prof's latest get–rich–legit scheme. Some fighter he was training in a converted warehouse in the South Bronx. I had wanted us to all pool our cash and get a racehorse— I've always coveted a trotter of my own. But convicted felons can't own racehorses— the authorities don't want the wrong kind of people in that game. They run an extensive background check, photo, prints, checkable references, all that kind of thing. That's for owning a racehorse— you want to open a nursery school, they don't care about any of that background crap.
