Down Here

“Maybe he’s still trying to work that one out,” the Prof said. “How he can turn loose of what he’s got, and still keep himself protected?”

“Even if that was so, why keep the charges alive?”

“They don’t want to tip off whoever shot him? That he’s ratting them out?”

“No,” I said. “Doesn’t work for me. Wychek’s dirt. If all he could do for the cops is dime out the guy who shot him, what’s that worth? Not the DA’s Office cooperating in a bogus charge against Wolfe. Too much potential downside for them, especially with all the press attention.

“He’s got something,” I went on, filling in the blanks with guesses. “And either he needs the sister to get it for him, or he needs her signature on a safe-deposit box, or . . . something like that. Whatever he has, he’s had it for a long time. Since before he went into the joint.”

“Because . . . ?” Michelle said.

“Because he was protected in there. Off a contract. Somebody paid real money for that. And for the fancy appellate lawyer, too.”

“So why’d he wait?” the Prof demanded.

“He . . . Damn, Prof! It isn’t just that he waited so long to hire Greuchel. He never even made bail on the charge Wolfe dropped him on. And he wouldn’t have needed PC at Rikers if the Brotherhood was protecting him there. So, whatever he found out, it must have happened while he was at Rikers.”

“Yeah?” the Prof snorted. “You think someone in there sent him a kite, made him see the light?”

Nobody said anything. Whatever they were thinking, I don’t know. Me, I was wondering if Wychek had ever asked his sister for bail money.

Suddenly, Max tapped a knuckle against the tabletop, drawing all our eyes. The Mongol looked up at the ceiling, dropped his gaze to eye level, let his eyes wander around aimlessly. He glanced at the floor. Picked some imaginary object up, gave it a quick, examining look, shrugged, and put it in his pocket.

Max got to his feet. Walked over to one of those promotional calendars, mostly a large poster, with a little pad of months you can tear off one at a time on the bottom. The one on Mama’s wall featured a Chinese woman, elegantly dressed, having a cocktail. The writing on the poster was all in Chinese, and the calendar pad was for 1961.

Max turned the pages of the calendar, indicating the passage of time. Then he snapped his fingers, made an “I’ve got it!” face, and reached into his pocket. He brought out the imaginary object in one hand, and used the fingers of the other to turn it, as if examining it from all sides.

He nodded a “Yes!,” then went over to Mama’s cash register and patted it, like it was a good dog.

I stood up, bowed deeply. “You nailed it, brother,” I said, making a gesture to match the words. “He got it before he went down, but he didn’t figure out it was worth anything until later.”

“Adds up,” the Prof said.

“Very logical,” the Mole agreed.

“And I think I know where he got it now,” I said. “So I’m going to Iowa.”

I walked out to the back alley with Clarence and Terry, the Mole stumbling in our wake. I pulled Clarence aside, asked him a quick question, got the answer I expected.

Back inside, I sat down in my booth. I felt . . . depleted. Like I’d fought ten rounds, to a decision that wasn’t going to go my way.

Mama came over and sat across from me. “All for police girl?” Mama said, accusingly.

“There’s money in this,” I said, stubbornly.

I closed my eyes, felt Michelle slide in next to me, ready to defend her big brother. Mama had known about Wolfe for years. “Police girl” said it all. Our family is outlaws; we don’t believe in mixed marriages.

“If Burke says there’s money, there’s money,” Michelle said, loyally.

“Maybe. But not for money,” Mama replied.

“So?” Michelle challenged her.

“So no . . . focus,” Mama said, pointing at Max to emphasize what she meant. For all his skills, the ki radiating from Max the Silent was all about focus. Without it, he’d just be another tough guy.

“I’m feeling my way,” I admitted. “But Wychek’s got something. Even Max says so.”

“Something for police, maybe.”

“Wolfe’s not on their side anymore,” Michelle said. “She went into her own business a long time ago.”

“Still police girl here,” Mama said, patting her chest. Case fucking closed.

It was just past seven that same night when I test-slipped the Mole’s clone card into the slot for Laura’s garage, my other hand on the genuine one Laura had given me, just in case.

The gate went up.

I walked up the back stairs, carrying the stainless-steel cylinder by its handle.

I rapped lightly on the door to her apartment. The door opened immediately. I hadn’t heard the sound of a deadbolt retracting, and the chain wasn’t in place.

“Hi!” she said, giving me a quick kiss as I crossed the threshold.

She was wearing another kimono—white, with gold and black dragon embroidery.

“I didn’t know where we were going, so I didn’t want to get dressed until . . .” she said, blushing a little.

“You’re perfect,” I said, holding up the gleaming cylinder.

^“Oh my God, this is the best Chinese food I ever had in my life,” she said, about forty-five minutes later.

I had opened the complex series of interlocking pots, each with its own dish inside. A few quick blasts with the microwave, and we had a five-course dinner that money, literally, couldn’t buy.

“I told you it would be a surprise,” I said.

“Where did you get it? I’m going to order from them for the rest of my life.”

“Oh, it’s not from a restaurant,” I said. “I know this old Chinese woman who makes special meals to order. She used to serve them in her house—”

“Oh, I heard about those kind of setups. You don’t get a menu or anything, and you have to book, like, months in advance, right?”

“Exactly. Only she’s not up to having people in her home anymore. She’s like a hundred years old,” I said, involuntarily tensing my neck muscles against a psychic slap from Mama. “I called her, gave her a few hours’ notice—that was what took so long—and she said she’d do it.”

“Wow. She really put herself out. It must have cost a—”

“Money wouldn’t make her do anything, not at her age. I told her it was very special, very important to me.”

“I . . . I wish I knew how to do things like that.”

“I guess I don’t, either. I never did it before. I was just thinking . . . about you, about going out to eat, how things . . . happened. Then I remembered this old lady, and . . .”

“Did you use to eat there a lot?”

“A lot? I ate there once. About, let me see, six, seven years ago? I was doing a profile on a big Chinese businessman. A puff piece, really, but I can’t support myself doing nothing but investigative stuff. He was the one who took me there.”

“Did you mention it in your article?”

“I wasn’t going to. It isn’t that kind of place, you could see that. But it wouldn’t have mattered. The piece got spiked, and I had to settle for the kill fee.”

“What’s a kill fee?”

“Say a magazine commissions a piece for five thousand. Then, after they see it, they decide not to go with it. If there’s a decent contract, they have to pay the writer some percentage of the fee, agreed on in front.”

“Why would they do that? Commission an article and then not use it?”

“There’s a hundred reasons.” I shrugged. “They decide they need the space for something else that month. Or the subject isn’t hot anymore. Or maybe they just don’t like the job you did on it.”