Hard Candy

'That means I know the facts, but there's no column in it.'

'How about this for a lead? Mafia don's estranged daughter snuffed. The number two written in blood on the wall. Head chopped off the body and stuck between her legs. Building doorman found dead. Cops cover up mob connection.'

He blew a sharp breath through his teeth. 'This is on the street?'

'Not yet.'

'So you spoke to the cops. Or the killer.'

'I don't just know how it went down, I know why. Want to trade?'

'Sure. What do you want?'

'Torenelli. He's holed up. And he's working with the cops. One of them knows where he is. Probably brass.'

'So?'

'That's what I want to know.'

'This is deep water, man. Deep and dark.'

'Pretend you're back in Haiti.' Morehouse had won a journalism award for his coverage of the insanity on that island after Baby Doc fled.

'I have to live here.'

'It's your choice.' I shrugged.

'What do I get?'

'You get the inside story. The why of it all. It wasn't a random murder and it wasn't a sex-freak mob. There's a job war coming down.'

'Drugs?'

'No.'

'What, then?'

'We have a deal?'

'Sure.'

'You first.'

'That isn't the way it works, Burke. I give you what I got, you give me what you got. Same time, no taking turns.'

'Except you got nothing. Nothing now. You get what I want, let me know, and we'll trade. Deal?'

'You at the same number?'

I nodded.

'Sure,' he said, watching the disconnected fan spinning in the street.

89

I DROVE THROUGH the Village streets, working toward Chinatown. Max held his hand out in front of his eyes, rigid as a steel bar, asking a question. I took one hand off the wheel, did the same. My hand didn't tremble. Too many things to be scared of at the same time- my nerves were in a coma.

When we pulled into the warehouse, he made the sign for me to come up with him. Sleep over. I bent my wrists, holding paws in front of my face. Pansy was home- I had to get back. His face didn't change. He knew the beast could get along for days without me. I pointed at my watch, showed him the time I wanted to roll tomorrow. He gestured like he was picking something off a plate, putting it in his mouth. We'd meet at Mama's.

90

I ATE BREAKFAST at my desk the next morning, listening to the all-news station on the radio. An FBI agent was busted for molesting kids. The DEA seized another twenty million dollars' worth of coke at JFK. A group of inmates at Sing Sing were demanding a nonsmoking wing. There was a city-wide hunt for a bank bandit. Thirteen hits- total take under twenty grand. He was probably scared to hit the bodegas- they had more cash on hand, but you couldn't push notes across the counter.

Rye toast, cream cheese, pineapple juice. I made it last. I like to eat alone. By myself That's the worst thing about prison- even worse than the fear-mist that makes it hard to breathe- no privacy. Nothing to yourself Even in solitary, the smells come in.

I thought about what Morehouse said. I have to live here too. I'd had this office a long time, but I wouldn't miss it if I had to go.

Flood drifted around in my thoughts. I pushed her back. I thought when I settled up with Belle's father, it would quiet my mind. I could go to Japan, like Max said. Find Flood. Here in the city, a monster was charging toward a machine. I didn't figure out how to get out of the way, I'd find Belle quicker.

91

I CALLED CANDY from the street.

'Buzz downstairs. Tell the doorman you're expecting a package. Two guys'll be bringing it up.'

'Now?'

'Yeah.'

Max and I carried the giant carton stamped with the brand name of the TV set in big black letters. His sleeves were rolled up, biceps popping with the strain, veins roped on his forearms. I kept my coat on. The doorman took us up in the service elevator, let us out on her floor. I picked up the empty carton by a corner and carried it in one hand as Max faded into the stairwell.

She opened the door while my finger was still on the buzzer. Stepped aside to let me in.

'Where's the other guy?'

'He went back down to the car.'

'You brought me a present?'

'It's empty.'

'It's the thought that counts.'

'Tell me what you want.'

She was wearing a red silk slip. Barefoot. Thick brunette wig, yellow cat's eyes patient. 'Can we talk in the back?'

I followed her down the hall. The backs of her legs were muscular, hips rolling in a tight round arc. 'Any particular room you want?' she asked.

'I don't care,' I said to her shoulder. 'Where's the kid?'

'Back in school.'

She turned into the last room. The only window was masked behind a midnight-blue screen- twilight inside. She tilted her head at a reclining black leather chair in the corner, chrome dish ashtray atop a black tripod next to it. I sat down. Lit a smoke. She propped one leg on the psychiatrist's couch, stood sideways facing me, flexing the muscles in her leg.

'That's the part that goes soft first,' she said, patting the inside of her thigh. 'Mine're like rocks.'

'Great.'

'It doesn't do anything for you?'

'Why should it?'

'You're a man.'