Only Child

costs—”

“But, sometimes, you let other people tape, don’t you?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Let me show you. I’ve got a machine in my car.”

“Sixto!” she yelled.

The sound of feet pounding on boards. The door in the back of the dojo opened, and three men walked in. Triangle formation. The guy at the point was half a foot taller than Max and a hundred pounds heavier, with a shaved head and keloid eyebrows. His arms were so densely covered in apolitical ink—crosses, daggers, skulls— that they looked black.

“This guy’s asking questions about taping. He says he’s got something in his car...” the woman told him.

“What is this?” the big man asked, moving closer.

“I want to get my guy into a match,” I said. “So I brought him around, find out what the deal is. See, I heard about this from a tape....”

“What fucking tape, man?”

“That’s what I was trying to explain to this young lady. I watched a piece of tape. Looked pretty good. In fact, unless I miss my guess, you were in it.”

“Me?”

“Sixto, that must have been when—”

“Shut up, Vicki,” he cut her off. Turned to me. “You trying to sell me something?”

“The opposite. I’m buying, not selling.”

“Buying what, man?”

“Look at the tape first,” I said.

“I never saw this before,” Sixto said, fascinated as he watched himself on the portable playback screen. “I took that motherfucker down!”

One of the men with him slapped Sixto’s extended palm. Hard, signifying total agreement.

“So you said you were buying something...?”

“What I’m buying is, who shot that tape?”

“This one here?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it worth?”

“Couple a hundred.”

“Yeah? Give me the money.”

“When you’re done.”

“I’m nobody to fuck with, pal. You just seen that for yourself.”

“Right. And I’m not fucking with you. Who made that tape?”

He stared at me, letting his eyes glaze and his breathing go short and sharp. Prison-yard stuff. I looked between his small, close-together eyes, waited.

“I don’t know his name,” he finally said.

“What do you know?”

“I don’t...Vicki, you know?”

“Yeah,” the woman said. “He paid us; remember, Sixto? To tape just one match. Only we had to let him right in the ring. Remember...?”

“Yeah! Now I do. Sure. That little guy was in-fucking-sane! We warned him he could get himself crippled, doing that. But he said that was okay, it was his risk.”

“What did he look like?” I asked.

“He didn’t look like nothing, man. About like you.”

“White man?”

“Yeah, white.”

“Anything else?”

“Vicki?” he asked, his tone respectful, not role-playing anymore.

“He had real nice teeth,” she said. “All white and perfect. I remember those teeth.”

“Good,” I complimented her. “You have a fine eye. His face, did he have any scars?”

“He didn’t look like you, if that’s what you mean,” she said, smiling.

“What size was he?”

“Next to Sixto, all men look small to me,” she said proudly.

“Was he sporting gold?”

“No. Not that I could see.”

I stroked her for a couple of minutes more, but she was dry.

“Appreciate it,” I told her, handing over the money.

“What you said...when you came in, that was all bullshit, right?”

“Sure.”

“What’d he say, V?” Sixto asked.

“He said this guy here,” pointing at Max, “wanted to get into one of our events. He doesn’t speak English.”

“He’s got the look,” Sixto said. “You want to try me? Right here. We got a ring set up in back. Just for fun?”

“No thanks,” I said. “We were looking for something a little more his speed.”

“I spent a lot of your money,” Cyn said, pointing at a couple of cartons of videotapes. “I went as downscale as I could, but you can’t tell from the labels—a lot of stuff they call ‘amateur’ isn’t. True amateur stuff is actually more expensive, believe it or not.”

“Did you look through it yet?”

“I figured you’d rather do it yourself,” she said, grinning.

“Wouldn’t you and Rejji recognize most of the...performers? If they were pros, I mean?”

“If it’s our kind of stuff, we should,” Cyn agreed.

“Then just save me the ones you don’t,” I told her.

“You got a good guinea suit?”

“Guido, or top-shelf?”

“Either one,” Giovanni said on the phone. “Just don’t get all Seventies on me, okay? I’m picking you up. One o’clock. Northwest corner of Hester and Broadway.”

“One in the morning?”

“The afternoon,” he said, sounding annoyed.

“You look fine,” Giovanni said, taking in my loose-draped charcoal sharkskin suit and teal silk shirt, buttoned to the neck. “This hour, we take the West Side Highway to the Henry Hudson, we’re there in an hour, tops.”

“Where?”

“It’s not the place,” he said, “it’s the person. How you doing?”

I knew he wasn’t social-dancing. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “There’s things that might lead us in, but I can’t tell. Not yet.”

“You want to run anything past me?”

“No.”

“I’m not asking for anything in writing, Burke. What’s your problem?”

“The problem is, I have to ask you some questions. And the more you know about what I’m doing, the better the chance your answers won’t be as good to me.”

“Asshole!” Giovanni muttered, stabbing at the brakes as a white Corvette shot across our bow, heading for the Ninety-sixth Street exit.