room enough to get past. Max inched the Rover forward. Clarence clasped his hands in prayer. A parked car on our right, the outside rearview mirror of the truck to our left. We were only about four inches short of slipping by, but that still left us wedged in—no place to go.
I signaled Max to stay put and climbed out of the back seat. Three guys were sitting on a loading platform, drinking something out of big white styrofoam cups.
'That your truck?' I asked them.
'Who wants to know?' the guy in the middle asked back, chin up, neck muscles starting to tighten.
'You're blocking the road, pal,' I told him. 'Just pull over a few inches and we can get by.'
'In a minute,' he said, dismissing me. The guy on his right nodded approval.
Asshole. I got back in the car, lit a cigarette. Max rapped the dashboard. I leaned forward, caught his eyes. Put my inside wrists together, clapped my hands, making a 'yap yap' gesture. I tapped my watch, held up my hand, fingers spread. Meaning: another five minutes, they'll get tired of the game and move the truck—no big deal. Max started to get out of the car. I held my palm out like a traffic cop. No—it wasn't worth it.
'He wants to tell those guys to get a move on?' Clarence asked me.
'Yeah,' I said. 'But he wouldn't tell them nicely and I don't want trouble.'
'I tell them, mahn,' Clarence muttered, his hand snaking under his jacket.
'Chill,' I told him. 'They're just profiling. Give 'em a minute, they'll move the truck. Nothing to it.'
Horns honked behind us. I smoked my cigarette. A red–faced fat slob knocked on my window. I hit the switch to let it down—his sweat–smell flooded in.
'What's the fucking problem?' the slob wanted to know. His face looked like an overripe muskmelon, about to burst from the heat.
'There's no room to get by. The truckers said they'd move out the way in a minute. We're just waiting.'
'Well,
He came back with the three truckers. All screaming at each other, lots of fingers being pointed. And nothing moving. Horns really blasting now—a lot of them, it sounded like. Someone was going to do something stupid, guaranteed.
Max hit the switch and his window came down. One dark, deep–veined hand extended out. He grabbed the mirror on the truck and twisted. There was a crack and the mirror came free in his hand. Max held the mirror in one hand high above the car. As soon as he was sure the truckers saw it, he flipped it over the top of the Rover in their direction, flicked the gear shift into first, let out the clutch and pulled away. Slow.
By the time we got over to Canal, Clarence had calmed down a bit.
We were heading up First Avenue, pointed toward Sutton Place, the address Kite had given me. 'I'll ring every fifteen minutes or so,' I told Clarence, holding up the cell phone. 'Don't answer it. Don't do anything. A half hour goes by and it doesn't ring, call this number and ask to speak to me,' I said, handing him Kite's card. 'You don't get an answer, or they won't put me on the phone, come on up. Both of you.'
'Got it, mahn.'
'The Prof looked it over?' I asked him.
'My father says it is Old Money, mahn. Very exclusive. No funny stuff in that place, that is for sure.'
'And he's in the penthouse?'
'Yes. It has a separate elevator, the last one in the row.'
'Security?'
'My father did not go up, mahn. But even when they had to throw him out of the lobby—he had his shoeshine kit—they only had a couple of old men with uniforms. No professionals, not on the ground floor, anyway. If he has muscle, it will be inside his apartment, I am sure.'
When we pulled up front, Clarence was out the door before I was, going over his beloved Rover with a chamois cloth, checking for scratches.
Max just sat there, waiting.
I told the deskman my name. He didn't bother to pick up the phone, just pointed at an elevator standing open at the end of a four–car row.
At the top of its ride, the elevator car opened inside a small foyer painted a robin's–egg blue. It was all clean–cut lines in the wood, stark and sharp–edged, without a scrap of furniture. On the far side of the foyer was a narrow opening covered top to bottom with wrought–iron grillwork—it looked like the door to an upscale prison cell. As I walked closer, a dark shape materialized behind the grille. A woman, thick–bodied but curvy, with the kind of pinched–in waist that you can't get from genetics. Another step and I could see she had jet–black hair, straight and thick, curving sharply just past a tiny, pointed chin to frame a fleshy face. Small red rosebud mouth. Heavy blusher on her baby–fat cheeks, eyebrows plucked down to pencil lines, curved to parallel the hairdo. The orange eyes Bondi told me about. There was a hard shine to her face, like a ceramic glaze. Her small eyes were as bright as a bird's, and about as warm. She was wearing a black dress of some shiny material, slashed deeply down her chest, thin black straps crisscrossing the cleavage.
'Mr. Burke,' she said, the husky voice of the woman who had answered the phone.
I nodded. She turned a knob—I heard the heavy bolt giving way. She pulled the gate toward her, stepping back as she did. I crossed the threshold, closing the space between us.
'Come with me,' she said, moving away in a smooth, flowing motion.
Her hips were wide and rounded, muscular bottom outthrust in the tight skirt. Her heels clicked on the floor as she walked down a hall lined with framed certificates. I stayed a couple of paces behind, hands at my sides.
She turned a corner. When I followed, I found myself in a long narrow room. The wall to my right was pitch black, empty. A white formica table ran its full length, its top covered with machinery: three computer screens, only one of them alive with what looked like a color spreadsheet, fax machine, copier, a reel–to–reel recorder with four separate mikes, each with its own VU meter, a fat box with something that looked like a blood–pressure cuff attached to a standing tube. The wall to my left was pure dazzling white, as blank as its mate opposite except for a bright chrome picture frame maybe two feet square. The frame was empty, the white wall gleaming from within its borders.
Between the walls was a big fan–backed chair with a diagonal bisected design, white leather on one half, black on the other. Behind it, nothing but windows. Old–fashioned casement windows with small individually framed little squares of glass. Behind the glass, the East River.
Next to the chair, a little round cafe table with black legs, topped with a white marble disk. On the table, a miniature dumbbell, gleaming chrome. I'd seen one like that before. They use them to test for telekinetic power. A long time ago, I met this wild–haired, calm–eyed girl—a graduate student at NYU. She was in the wrong place, a storefront in Bushwick where somebody told her she'd find a psychic who could speak to the dead. The storefront was empty, another Brooklyn burnout. But the rat–packing teenagers who surrounded her thought it would still do just fine for the games they had in mind. They weren't real bright, those little beasts, but they knew what the sawed–off twelve–gauge I was holding would do to their futures, so they backed off quick enough. I stuffed her into the Plymouth and took her back where she belonged. Tanya was her name. She was doing her Ph.D. on psychic phenomena. After we got to know each other better, she got convinced I had this telekinetic power…and I spent hours trying to move one of those little dumbbells. She told me I could, if I would only care about it enough. I guess I never did.
'Mr. Burke.' A man's voice, the titanium wire I'd heard before, snapping me out of the memories.
I turned slowly. He was moving toward me, coming from around the same corner I'd turned. Short, slim man. Elegantly dressed in a dove–gray suit with a faint red chalk stripe, a white shirt and a red tie with a black swirl pattern running wild against it. His hair was white. Not gone–from–gray white—no–color white. His face was the same no–color, a faint network of capillaries clearly visible beneath the skin. Pink–tinted glasses covered his eyes. He stepped closer, holding out his hand for me to shake. A white hand, the veins clear blue against the translucence.
An albino.
His grip was moderate—measured, like there was plenty left. His skin was dry; I felt a faint trace of powder. He smelled like lime.
'What sort of chair do you prefer?' he asked, inclining his head toward the fan–backed one sitting under the windows, telling me that one was his. 'Straight–backed, armchair, director's…I thought you'd be more comfortable
