Hard Candy

I used to dream about her coming back.

I don't have any more dreams.

He didn't ask me today. The waiter brought him a bowl of fried rice and a pitcher of ice water. I watched him eat, smoking another cigarette. I wasn't hungry.

The waiter took the rice bowl away. I got up to split. To go nowhere. Max pushed his hand toward the tabletop, like there was a delicate bubble of air he was holding to the surface. Stay for a minute.

I sat back in the booth. He pointed to the empty place next to me.

Floated his hands before me into a kung fu dragon-master opening. I nodded my head. Yeah, a karate-fighter. So?

He pointed a finger to himself- weaved his own hands in an answering gesture.

I nodded again. The man wanted Max. Wanted to challenge him to a duel.

He pointed at me again, made a gesture of dismissal. He flipped a chopstick between his fingers- snapped it like a dry twig. Right again. I'm no karateka- no match for a master.

Max took a sip of water, his eyes pinning me. He waved his hands again, another challenge. Shook his head no. Held up his hand like a traffic cop. Shrugged his shoulders. No big deal. Max the Silent didn't fight for fun. He'd just walk away. It wasn't an ego thing.

He spread his hands in the 'why?' gesture again.

It didn't matter anymore.

I jerked a thumb to my right, indicating the challenger. I pointed at Max, put my hands on the table in front of him, two fingers down from each fist. Men walking. I had them approach each other. Stop. One finger pawing the air before the other. Turned one hand and had the fingers walk away. Felt his eyes on my hands. I pulled one hand off the table, flattened it into a wall, slammed it down in front of the two fingers walking away. No. You can't walk away. His eyes lifted to meet mine. I took the hand that had been a wall and brought it to my chest. Made the sign of rocking a baby. Pointed to him. Your baby. I lifted one hand gently to where the baby's head would have been, watching my brother's face. Held his eyes as I slashed a finger across the child's throat. The karateka's ante in the death-game. Somebody dies. 'I can always make a man fight,' the maniac told me.

Max locked my eyes, making it not true in his mind. But he knew. I heard a sharp crack. The water glass popped in his hand. Blood flowed across the knuckles.

My brother bowed slowly to me. And then he was gone.

I lit another cigarette. Mama came back to the booth. A waiter made the blood disappear.

'You tell him, yes?'

I didn't answer her. She left me alone.

8

WEEKS WENT by like that. Slow, gray time. Like being inside. I stayed where I was, not even waiting. McGowan's partner took his shot too. Morales, a thickset Puerto Rican. He got right to it, bracing me in the basement poolroom. I was pushing the balls around the green felt by myself when he walked in. Took a seat and watched me for a while, not saying anything. The stick artists ignored him- the salesmen moved away from our area. There's rooms upstairs you can rent by the hour.

He tilted his hat back, small dark eyes like bullet holes in his head. Watching.

I stroked the bright orange five ball into the corner pocket. The cue ball reversed itself on the short rail and slapped into a cluster of balls, scattering them.

'Nice shot,' Morales said.

I chalked my cue. Nudged the four ball into the same pocket.

'You're a good shooter, I hear.'

I tapped the thirteen, sliding it toward the opposite corner. Chalked my cue again.

'Funny game, pool,' he said. 'You shoot a ball, you do it right, and it just disappears right off the table.'

I banked the ten ball into the side pocket.

He got up, poked through the racks of standing cues, found one that suited him.

'Let's you and me play a game,' he said, sweeping the loose balls together into the triangular rack. Nine balls.

'Five and ten?' I asked him.

He tilted his head toward a dirty hand-painted sign on the near wall. No Gambling.

'It wouldn't be,' I told him.

His lips curled. He didn't pretend it was a smile. 'One money ball- a dime on the nine?'

I nodded. He reached in his pocket for a coin, started to toss it on the table.

'Do it,' I said, sitting down.

Morales broke the balls the way he'd like to break mine. With a hard, straight-ahead slash. Lots of power, no stroke. The balls scattered, running for cover. The three dropped in. He power-slammed the one ball, not even thinking about running the table. A slugger- no finesse. When the dust settled, there were still eight balls on the green cloth.

He sat down, watching. I tapped the one ball down the long rail, leaving myself a clear shot at the two. Dumped it in. I kissed the cue off the four ball into the nine. The yellow-and-white striped ball went home. Morales got up to rack the balls. I raised my eyebrows at him.

'Put it on my tab.'

I flicked my eyes to the No Gambling sign.

His face went dark. He took a deep breath through his nose, remembering why he was there. Tossed a crumpled ten-spot on the table. I picked it up, smoothed it out. Left it lying on the rail.

I made the nine ball on the break.

Morales put another ten down on the rail. Racked the balls.

I broke again. Two balls dropped. I lined up on the one.

His voice was light, hard-cored. Honey-coated aluminum. 'Upstate, when you come in on a homicide beef, you know what they say about you?'

'Tough luck?'

'They say you got a body. Nice, huh? Some punk snuffs an old lady for the Welfare check, he struts around the block saying, 'I got a body.' You ever hear that one?'

'No.'

I ran the rest of the table. Morales put a twenty down, taking back one of the tens. He racked the balls. I chalked my cue. Lit a smoke.

'We met once before, remember?'

'No.'

'You remember my name?'

I locked his eyes. 'Something with an 'M,' right? Miranda?'

'Smart guy. You got a body, Burke?'

My eyes never left his face. 'You guys have one?' I asked.

'See you soon,' he said, walking away.

I put his money in my pocket. Went back to pushing the balls around the table.

9

I DIDN'T NEED need the cop's cash.

There'd been a fifty-grand bounty on the Ghost Van. A killing machine for baby prostitutes. Pimps put up the coin- it was bad for business. Marques Dupree made the offer in a parking lot. Take the van off the street and