On the next page following, still in the same tiny handwriting, more notes:
And then the coda, all caps, double underlined, centered exactly at the bottom of the page:
Kite's religion?
I let it simmer a couple of days, waiting to see if Heather turned up the pressure. But the phone at Mama's stayed silent. Okay.
'I'm ready to talk,' I told her when she answered the phone.
'Thank you so much,' she whispered into the phone, an undercurrent of promise in her voice. 'When can you do it?'
'Tomorrow morning?'
'I'll have to check—no, I know it'll be fine. Is ten all right?'
'Yes.'
I docked the Plymouth in an outdoor lot north of the Fifty–ninth Street Bridge near the FDR and walked to Kite's building. I was dressed the same as I was the last time. Not because I thought Heather would pull the same stunt—I just wanted to make sure her memory was refreshed.
She stood on the far side of the grille, wearing a black bustier under a transparent white blouse over black Capri pants anchored with a wide red belt. Her black–cherry hair was a lacquered helmet. Her eyes were little circles of orange glass in the dim light, bright even against the thick makeup. When she turned her back on me to lead the way, I saw she was back to spike heels. The left ankle was wrapped in tape—it must have been painful. I ignored the sway of her powerful hips, my eyes on her shoulders, but she stepped smoothly to one side to usher me into Kite's chambers without a hint of aggression.
The butterscotch leather armchair was in place next to Kite's fan–shaped chair. He waved me over like he was an old pal who'd been waiting for me in our regular saloon. I took my seat. He didn't offer to shake hands. If he noticed anything different about my face, it didn't show on his.
I heard the tap of her spike heels behind me. She leaned over with a glass of water, but she kept her head high, her nose almost in my hair. I heard a faint sniff, probably because I was listening for it. She was checking for cigarette smoke, her ankle reminding her not to relax her guard around me, but between the strong shampoo and the heavy gel, she didn't have a chance. I'd washed my hands in rubbing alcohol too, just in case.
'I won't insult you by asking if you read the material I gave you,' Kite said by way of opening. 'I'm sure you wouldn't be here if you hadn't.'
'Okay,' I said, staying inside myself. Thinking of that Zen rock, polished by years under the waterfall until it was as seamless as the water itself. Like Kite's rap. Prison is full of raps. Glassily ceramic, keeping your focus on the surface so you never looked inside. The cons who call themselves Aryans say blacks are mud people and whites are sun people. And the cons who call themselves Africans say blacks are earth people and whites are ice people. Two sides of the same smooth stone. And not a speck of truth under the sleek surface.
'Do you have any reaction?' he asked, white eyebrows raised behind the pink glasses.
'Liars lie,' I said indifferently. 'Guy rapes a woman in Dallas, he says it was consent, okay? Another guy rapes another woman in Chicago, he says it was consent too. That doesn't make it a national conspiracy. But some whore psychologist writes an article about some bullshit mental disorder that makes women who actually consented to sex scream 'Rape!' and all of a sudden, it's a fucking 'syndrome,' and defense attorneys have a field day.'
'It cuts the other way too,' Kite said, leaning forward. 'A gang of pedophiles sexually assault a child in Sweden. On the videotape, they're all wearing black. The same videotape shows up in the house of a collector in the United States. He's got a black shirt in his closet. So the police tell the newspapers they've cracked an international ring of child molesters.'
'Like I said: liars lie. So?'
'So idiot therapists who do their incompetent 'validations' of child sexual abuse start adding 'Did he have a black shirt?' to their stupid checklists. And when they get an affirmative answer, as they inevitably will in some cases, there's their 'proof.' The first thing any charlatan needs is nomenclature. A special language. Trappings. That's the true genesis of psychobabble terms such as 'disclosure' and 'in denial.' Every good con man needs plausibility…'
'People see what they want to see,' I said. 'Whatever pays their bills or races their motors. You pointed it out yourself, in the stuff you gave me.'
'And so what's missing?' he asked, making a temple of his fingertips, gazing out at me between them. 'I'll tell you, Mr. Burke: objective, damn–the–consequences
'What about caseworkers?,' I asked, knowing the answer. 'Like for Child Protective Services?'
'
'England, right? Three, four hundred years ago? A little room where they dragged you in and told you you were guilty.'
'Close enough,' he acknowledged. 'For the child, for the putatively
'And if they see incest under every bed…'
'Yes! Then the poor parents won't have a chance either. In America, the predominant factor in the outcome of
'Yeah, and—'
'Of course'—he cut me off—'a sufficiently skilled defense can shred even the truest case. It happens all the time.' He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. 'Mr. Burke, I live in the crossfire between two armed camps: the 'Believe the Children!' lunatics and the 'False Allegations!' fanatics. My only weapon is the truth. And if my syndrome is to achieve
