James looked over at me. “Your man’s not much of a conversationalist, is he?”
“Try the phones,” I suggested.
James sat down at his desk, hit 411, asked the operator for the number of the Waldorf-Astoria, got the number, dialed the Waldorf, made reservations for two in a suite for one week from then. I guess he expected his ship to come in.
I got up to leave. “You’ll be hearing from this reporter I told you about. That should give you all the publicity you’ll ever need. Call me at this number,” I said, handing him a card, “and I’ll be back in touch with you within one hour no matter what time you make contact, okay?”
“Certainly,” said James, extending his hand. I shook it, waved at Gunther, who glowered back, and walked out to the elevator.
A few minutes later I was climbing the stairs to Michelle’s little room. As I got to the top step I saw the Mole standing in a corner, watching and waiting-even with his pasty skin you had to look twice to see him sometimes, he was so motionless. I waved him on and we went into the little room. Michelle was facing the door-she looked up from her book when she saw me and really flashed to life when she saw I wasn’t alone.
“Mole, baby! How’s things in the underground?”
The Mole blinked a few more times than usual, gave Michelle his best try at a smile, but said nothing, as usual. He began to empty out his toolbox with the sure movements of a professional. He didn’t need to check out the room, he had worked this place before. Out of the toolbox came a square metal rig with all kinds of toggle switches on its face as well as two little lights, one red and one green. He plugged in a phone mouthpiece and receiver, then ran some wires over to a little box that looked like the face of a pocket calculator. He opened up the mouthpiece, screwed in one of the supressor discs, ran some wires over to the wall, snapped in some other piece of equipment, touched two wires together, took a reading, opened a tripod with a flat top, and put the phone unit on top of that. All the time he was working, Michelle watched him with hawk’s eyes.
The Mole pulled out two more phone sets, plugged them into the major unit, and ran some more wires toward the back wall. All this took him the better part of a half hour. Michelle and I didn’t say a word-this was complicated work and we knew the Mole didn’t like kibitzers. He moved with assurance and grace-no microsurgeon could have been better with his hands. When he finished he played with the setup for a couple of minutes, wearing his rubber gloves, then finally turned to us. “When the red light is on you make no calls. Green light, it’s okay to use. The left phone picks up downstairs. The next phone is incoming to you from all the numbers you gave me. You dial out only with this box.”
“Thanks, Mole,” I said, slipping him his money, which disappeared someplace into his uniform.
As the Mole turned to go Michelle said, “Mole,” making him turn to face her. “Mole, you remember I asked you to find out about that operation? The one for me?”
The Mole nodded, blinking behind his glasses.
“Would it work, Mole? Would it be what I want?”
The Mole spoke like he was reading from a book. “The operation is for true transsexuals-only for transsexuals. Biologically it would work. Assuming competent surgery and proper postoperative care, the only associated problems are psychological.”
“You know what a transsexual is, Mole?” Michelle asked him.
“Yes.”
“What?” demanded Michelle, looking intently at him. For her, I wasn’t in the room anymore.
“A woman trapped inside a man’s body,” said the Mole.
“Do you understand that?” asked Michelle.
“I understand trapped,” said the Mole, not blinking so much now.
“Thank you, Mole,” said Michelle, getting up and kissing him on the cheek. I thought the Mole blushed, but I couldn’t be sure. He faded out the door and was gone.
Michelle sat there for a long time, tapping her long fingernails on the cover of her compact. I lit a cigarette, smoked in silence. A tear gathered in the corner of her eye and rolled down her face, leaving its track against the soft skin. I lit another cigarette, handed it to her. She took it, held it absently for a minute, gave me a half-smile and pulled in a deep drag. She exhaled, shook herself. “I’m going to fix my face,” she said, and went into the bathroom.
It was another couple of smokes before she walked out-fresh, new, and hard again.
“Let’s go to work, baby,” she said, and sat down in front of the bank of phones.
I called the preppie reporter, told him I had located the mercenary recruiting outfit but my info was that they would only be there for another day or so and he said he’d move on it that afternoon. He thanked me for the tip, said he would make it up to me.
Then I called the ATF-that’s Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, with heavy emphasis on the last-and told them I couldn’t give my name but a guy answering Wilson’s description was making the rounds of the after-hours joints offering a half-dozen.45-caliber machine guns, complete with silencers, for immediate sale. When I said “silencers” I could just feel the excitement build on the line-a silencer bust to the ATF boys is like ten pounds of pure heroin to the narcotics cops. They kept pressuring me until I finally told them, “Look, I said all I’m going to. This is a
I broke the connection and headed to the restaurant, where I found Mama in the kitchen.
“Max here twice already. He come back soon, okay?”
“Okay, Mama. Thanks.”
“You want some soup?” came the inevitable question.
“Sure.”
I sat down, the waiter came and Mama and I had some soup and hard noodles, eating in silence, thinking our thoughts.
Max floated in from the back before we were finished. He bowed to Mama, who bowed back. Mama offered him some soup. Max shook his head no-Mama insisted, grabbed his shoulder, and pushed him into the booth. A faint smile twitched over Max’s face as he submitted.
Max showed me the racing form and I shook my head to tell him I was under pressure. I made the sign of squeezing a wound-gritted my teeth to show I was putting on all the pressure I could, clenched my fist. Max understood.
I showed him my watch, moved my fingers to indicate seven o’clock, then showed him the Cobra’s picture, shaded my eyes like I was looking into the sun, twisting my head from side to side. I made a want-to-come-along? gesture.
Max reached his hand behind his back, slapped himself hard-he wasn’t interested in hunting the freak, but he would come along to watch my back. Okay. I tapped my heart to thank him-he did the same to say we were brothers and it was expected of him, no big deal.
I said I would pick him up later at the warehouse, but for now I needed some sleep. In the movies tough guys never sleep. Maybe Flood was right, I wasn’t so tough.
50
BACK AT THE office I took care of Pansy by opening the back door and she took care of her business topside. The phone was still open and I called Flood. Told her nothing would be happening until tomorrow and I wouldn’t be able to see her until then. Then I called Michelle, saying I’d stop by much later to bring her some food and spell her at the phones.
“Burke,” she said, “the cub reporter made his move downstairs.”
“Sound like he knew what he was doing?”
“Not hardly.”
“That’s my man. I’ll call in later on, okay?”
“Okay, baby. Not to worry, everything’s fine here.”
I couldn’t get to sleep, so I deliberately overloaded my brain, knowing I could force it to kick out and spin into
