I went back into the living space next to the office and put together the stuff I’d need. All the firepower went back into the compartment in the floor of the closet except the.38, which would go back into the car. I put the clip- on car antenna into the breast pocket of an old tweed sportcoat, put it on over a plain gray sweater. Some tired corduroy pants, a battered felt hat, and a pair of desert boots completed the professor’s outfit. The hat didn’t really fit in with all the other stuff, but I don’t like to play stereotypes too rigidly.
I put the microcassette recorder inside the special pocket in the lining of my leather overcoat and connected the long flexible wire the Mole had made for me to the remote microphone sewn into the inside of the sleeve. Then I connected the remote-start wire to the switch in my overcoat pocket, the same one that would hold my cigarettes. I used a handy police siren from down by the river to test the recorder for treble, patted Pansy’s head until she purred to test for bass-it was as sensitive as the Mole had promised. I had ninety minutes of uninterrupted recording time-voice-activated, although it was so sensitive that it would run all the time once I touched the switch. I’d have to pay attention when I started it working.
I got Pansy all set up, activated the security systems, and went downstairs. The desert boots don’t have steel toes like my other shoes, but they’re rubber-soled and I don’t make a sound.
I let myself into the garage, put the.38 back where it belonged, and got out some old chamois cloth. The Plymouth had to be thoroughly cleaned before I put on its disguise. A couple of concealed hinge pins the kid had installed were all I needed to remove the entire front outside section. Next I took the precut sheets of heavy vinyl with gum backing and proceeded to turn the Plymouth from a faded blue to a brilliant two-tone red and white. I smoothed the vinyl on very carefully, like the guy I bought it from showed me, then went over the whole thing with a soft rubber block to get rid of all the little bubbles. It wouldn’t pass a serious inspection, but I wasn’t planning on anyone getting a close look.
Then I put on new license plates. They’re perfectly legal dealer plates from a junkyard in Corona. I own a ten percent interest in the junkyard, which I paid for in cash. In return, the old man who runs the thing carries me on the books at minimal salary so I have something to show the IRS, and lets me carry a set of dealer plates with me in case I see something worth salvaging. I cash the checks every month and get the cash right back to the old man. No problem. I suppose if some citizen got a reading on the plates the cops could trace them back to the junkyard, but they’d collect their pensions before I ever showed up there. And finding Juan Rodriguez (I told the old man that my parents were Spanish Jews, not that he gave a damn) in the abandoned building on Fox Street in the South Bronx would be a hell of a feat too.
I still had some time before I had to meet Flood, so I guided the Plymouth, resplendent in its new clothes, over to the warehouse to check on the mail. It looked empty as usual, but I rolled the car inside, turned off the engine, and waited. Max materialized at my window. I never heard him coming-they don’t call him Max the Silent just because he doesn’t speak. He twitched a muscle in his right cheek, parted his thin lips about a millimeter-that’s his idea of a friendly smile-and motioned for me to follow him into the back room. He gestured to the old wooden desk to indicate that there was some mail. I scooped it out and pulled a cigarette out of my pocket, offering Max one.
You ever watch an Oriental smoke a cigarette? They really know how to get something out of it. Max touched the butt to his lips with his palm facing in, drew a deep breath and reversed his grip so that he was holding it with his thumb on the bottom and his first two fingers on top. Then he gradually pulled the cigarette away as he inhaled, a gesture that meant I should tell him what was going on. I pointed to my eyes, then spread my hands wide to show I was looking for somebody but didn’t know where he was. Max touched his own face, held his hand in front of his eyes to show me a mirror, then gestured as if he were describing someone’s physical characteristics. I pretended I was taking a picture, then beckoned as if I were inviting someone to enter. Max understood that I was expecting to get a photograph of the target soon. Then he held his hands out in front, turned them slowly back and forth, and looked up expectantly. I pointed to my eyes again and made a no-no gesture with my palms down-I only wanted to find the guy, not hurt him. Max shrugged, then made a glad-to-see-you-pal gesture with his hands and face to ask me if the guy would be happy when I did find him. I made a sad face, indicating he would not. Max looked at his hands again. I shrugged my shoulders to show that maybe he was right, or would be right when this all came down.
Grabbing an elbow with each hand as if I were rocking a baby, I crossed my arms-did Mama Wong have anything for me? Max picked up an imaginary telephone, spoke into it, touched his finger to his forehead like he was making a mental note to remember something. So I had gotten a call at Mama’s, someone very insistent. Okay.
I buttoned up the coat to show Max I was leaving, and he glided out into the front area to make sure nobody was around. Max is a bonafide member of the warrior class-he doesn’t need combat to prove what he is. A lot of clowns who spend half their time slobbering about “respect” should see how the rest of the world treats Max.
As I pulled out of the garage, Max gestured that I should let him know if things got difficult. Implicit in his gesture was the belief that almost anything was too difficult for me to do alone.
17
THE DRIVE OVER to Mama’s was uneventful. The Plymouth was running smooth as a turbine. I checked the tape recorder hidden inside the dash to be sure it was working, then switched over to some cassette music. Charley Musselwhite’s version of “Stranger in a Strange Land” came back at me through the four speakers. He was a perfectionist once, but he’d left his best efforts in Chicago a dozen years ago-I don’t play any of his latest stuff. Too bad you can’t keep people’s best performances on tape cassettes like you can music. It wouldn’t matter in my case, though-I haven’t had my best shot yet, I hope.
I parked next to the dumpster in Mama Wong’s alley. It’s perfectly legal to park there, but nobody does. There’s some kind of Chinese writing on the wall, courtesy of Max the Silent. I don’t know what it means, but nobody parks there. I knocked twice on the steel door to the back of the restaurant, heard the peephole slide back, and one of Mama’s alleged cooks let me in. Mama was sitting at her tiny black-lacquered desk, sipping a cup of tea and writing in her ledger book. I guess a lot of people would like to take a look at that book-I guess a lot of people would like to be rich, happy, successful, famous, secure, and healthy too. They’ve got about the same chance. Mama greeted me with her usual blend of Far Eastern subtlety and politeness.
“Burke, why you wearing that silly hat?”
“It’s a disguise, Mama. I’m working on a case.”
“Not so good disguise, Burke. You still look like European.” (Mama likes to pretend all Occidentals look alike to her.)
“Max said you got a phone call for me?”
“Burke, you only one that can talk to Max except for me. Max like you. Max say that you are a man of honor. How come he say that?”
“Who knows why Max says anything?” (Meaning: That is between Max and me-he may work for you but he and I are a separate thing. Mama knows this but never stops trying. She thinks all secrets are dangerous except her own.)
“Burke, you get phone call from same man. James, he say. I tell you before, this man not good, okay?”
“What did he say this time?”
“He say I better tell you to call him. That this mean good money for you and you be mad at me if I don’t tell you.”
“Did he scare you, Mama?”
“Oh yes, very frightened. Many people killed over the telephone, right?” (Meaning: The phone number I give people rings in Mama’s restaurant, but the actual instrument is located in the back of the warehouse, with the bell disconnected. It’s hooked up to a diverter, which bounces the signal to the junkyard’s pay phone in Corona, where another diverter picks it up and rolls it back to the pay phone in the kitchen. Bribing a phone company employee will eventually get you the address of the warehouse, but that’s as close as you’d get. And going there with threats for Mama Wong would be fatal.)
“He leave a number, Mama?”
“Same number as last time. He say you can call him between six and seven tonight.”
