Another section was shoes. Lizard-skin spike heels, black leather boots from ankle to mid-thigh, shoes trimmed with rhinestones, jogging shoes, little girls' shoes with Mary Jane straps, sandals.
Rows and rows of built-in drawers. She opened them smoothly, stepped aside, gesturing with her hand like a wrongly accused smuggler sneering at a customs agent. G-strings, silk panties, bikini briefs, garter belts, teddies, camisoles, cotton panties in a dozen colors. Panty hose still in the original wrappers. Stockings from fishnet to sheer. Push-up bras, front-opening bras, bras with holes for nipples to poke through, bras with straps that crossed over the back. Red, black, white, and a pastel rainbow.
There was another panel to the wall. She slid it back. Riding crops, handcuffs, lengths of thin steel chains, a leather-handled stock, leather straps at the end, like a shortened cat-o'-nine-tails. Leather belts, from spaghetti straps to thick slabs. Something that looked like a black rubber sweatshirt. Dog collars. A leather face mask, laced up the back, the mouth a zippered slash. Hairbrushes, Ping-Pong paddles, some foam-padded, others covered with sandpaper. Rings, clamps, vibrators. Dildos, from pencils to sausages. A bullwhip of braided silk.
'Seen enough?'
Her eyes were a challenge. My face was flat. I nodded.
She held out her hand again, turning it so I could hold her by the wrist. The next room down the hall was a teenage girl's bedroom: Heavy Metal posters on the wall, fluffy quilt on the big bed, stuffed animals, pink telephone. A leather-bound book next to it. It said 'My Diary' on the cover in gold. Bathroom off to the side.
Three more bedrooms. A single working girl. A movie star. The last one had a black leather psychiatrist's couch in one corner. Rings bolted into the floor. The walls were lined in dark cork.
She took me back into the front room. My cigarette had burned itself out. I let go of her wrist- lit another one. She walked out of the room. I picked up the phone, hit the * button, watched the thin slash of liquid crystal fill up with the same number I had dialed before. The Prof answered. 'Okay so far,' I said. Hung up again.
She came back in again. 'You think of a name for me yet?'
'There's lots of names for it.'
'Money is the name for it. Nothing's changed.'
'I haven't got any money.'
'Yes you do, bounty hunter. I know what you do. But it's not your money I want. It's money I have for you- something I want you to do.'
'There's nothing I want to do.'
She took off her top. Her breasts stood out hard as white marble. 'Silicone. The very best- envelopes, not injections.' She licked her lips. 'Collagen. Here too,' she said, patting her seamless face. She stood, dropping the denim shorts to the floor in the same motion. 'This is mine,' patting her butt. 'Hard work. Three times a week on the machines.' She took a deep breath through her nose- her waist wasped. 'I can do more crunches than a bodybuilder. Six days a week.' The soft patch between her legs was dark, gleaming, heart-shaped. 'Electrolysis. Once a month,' she said, holding out her arms for me to see.
'You don't miss a trick.'
'Don't be nasty, Burke. I'm proud of you- you got what you wanted. Can't I do it too?'
'What did I want?'
'You think I don't remember? A name. You got a name now. The whole street knows your name. After Mortay…'
She caught me looking at her, felt the chill. 'I'm sorry. I know better. Don't say anything. I know the rules. There's something I need you to do- something you know how to do. And there's money. A lot of money. Just think about it, okay? And call me. You have the number. I'll come wherever you want…tell you what I need.'
I stood up. 'One more call,' I told her. She shrugged, walked over to the window, naked in the light. The glass had a faint orange tint. One-way. I picked up the phone, dialed 958-2222. A recorded voice spat back a phone number. Ma Bell's black box telling the phone repairman that he was working on the right account. It wasn't the number I had called her on. I said 'Okay' into the phone and hung up.
She came over to the door with me. 'Whatever you want. And the money,' she whispered. 'Call me.' Her lips flexed like she was going to kiss me. Saw me watching her face and pulled the punch. The door closed behind me. I took the elevator to the fourth floor, met Max on the stairwell. I pushed an imaginary button with my finger. We split up at the bottom of the stairs. When the doorman went to the back to answer the buzzer I walked out the front door.
I DROPPED the Prof off at the edge of the Village, turned the Plymouth toward Chinatown. Max spread his hands, asking me 'What?' I shrugged. I pulled over to the curb when we got near the warehouse where Max had his temple. His face was a mask, staring out the windshield to some other place. His hand dropped on my forearm, a leather-colored bone sculpture, a ridge of horned callous raised along the chopping edge, the first two knuckles enlarged, a white slash across the back from an old razor scar. He wasn't going to move. I turned to see what he wanted.
The mute Mongolian took his hand from my forearm, tapped two fingers against my chest. Where my heart would be. He put his fingertips together, elbows extending in a straight line. Slowly opened his fingers, tilted his face up. Sunlight? I looked a question at him. He went through the whole thing again. He wasn't getting through. A thick finger drew a cross in the dust on the dashboard. I watched. He put an arrow at the top of the cross. A compass? He extended the right-hand line of the cross all the way to the end of the dash. East? He made the gesture again. I nodded. The Rising Sun. Japan. I said her name. Flood. His hands came together in a prayerful gesture. Pointed at me. At himself. Extended his arms in a child's gesture of an airplane banking through the sky. We could go to Japan. Find her. Bring her back.
I shook my head. No. Again.
He bowed slightly. The way you do before the fight starts. Opened the door and he was gone.
31
WHEN I GOT to the junkyard, Terry let me in. 'They're fighting,' he said, leading the way back to the bunker.
The Mole was a sodden lump, seated on one of the cut-down oil drums he used for chairs. Elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. His coveralls were so dirty they worked like camouflage- his dead-white face looked suspended in air, light shifting on the thick lenses of his glasses as he followed Michelle's swooping circles around him. She was wearing a white raw silk coat that reached past the tops of her black boots. A black cashmere turtleneck sweater and black slacks that puddled over the tops of the boots. Long strand of pearls around her neck. Her hand flicked them back and forth as she snapped at the Mole. Simba sat next to the Mole, head cocked, ears flared. Fascinated.
She whirled as we came into the clearing, hands on hips.
'Stay out of this, Burke.'
'I came to see Mole,' I told her.
'You'll see him when I'm finished with him.'
'Mom…' Terry started.
All the hardness went out of her face. 'This doesn't concern you, sweetheart. You know the Mole and I argue sometimes. Soon as we're finished, I'll let you take me out to dinner in town, okay?'
The Mole's head swiveled toward me. 'She wants to have the operation.'
'Mole!'
'You think the boy doesn't know?'
It went quiet then. I lit a cigarette, waiting. Terry went over to Michelle, took her hand. 'It's okay, Mom.'
She kissed him hard on the cheek. Pulled away from him. Walked right up to the Mole, leaned into his face. 'It's
