Another Life

A Burke Novel

Andrew Vachss

Pantheon Books, New York

for Pam

Revenge is like any other religion: Theres always a lot more preaching than there is practicing. And most of that preaching is about what not to practice.

Vengeance is mine translates to: Its not yours. The karma-peddlers will tell you how doing nothing is doing the right thing, reciting, What goes around comes around in that heavy-gravity tone reserved for the kind of ancient wisdom you always find in comic books.

Every TV counselor, every self-help expert, every latte-slurping guruthey all chant some version of the same mantra: Revenge never solves anything.

Their favorite psalm is Forgiveness. And their hymn books are always open to the same page.

Get it? When you crawl away, youre not being a punk; youre just letting the cosmos handle your business. Whoever hurt you, theyll get theirs, dont worry. Just have a little faith.

Down here, we see it different. We dont count on karma. But you can count on this: hurt one of us, were all coming for you.

* * *

A low-level maggot once got a little taste of power and overdosed on it. He murdered a thirteen-year-old girl after three privileged little weasels ran to him for help.

The boys hadnt meant to kill her; they were good kids who just got a little carried away. All they wanted was to gang-rape the little cock-teaser, take some picturesteach her what it cost to humiliate people of their status. But when the girl suddenly stopped moving, their freakish plan tumbled out of control.

Terrified, they offered the maggot anything he wanted if hed dump the body for them.

But when he arrived at the abandoned house where theyd left the girl, he discovered she wasnt actually deadpassed out from the pain, but still breathing, leaking blood. He touched her throat, found a good, strong pulse. If hed taken her to the ER, she would have made it.

Instead, he went to work on her. His kind of work.

That little girl lasted a few more minutes. Alive in terror and praying for death.

More than thirty years later, the maggot and the three grownup weasels were blown away. They went out togethernever saw it coming.

We got paid to do that.

Now were paying.

* * *

The sniper who had pinned my father to the ground as we were making our getaway is gone, too. An on-target warhead from an RPG had turned the stone-shielded corner hed been firing from into an incinerator big enough for him and the rest of the hired guns up there with him.

So many died that day. Every time my heart pumps, regret pulses through my bloodstream.

Thats the worst thing about killing certain humans: you can only do it once.

* * *

What more can we do, mahn? My father is somewhere between this world and the next. He must stayhis body must staywith those people until he comes back to us. If he were only in a real hospital

Weve been through this, I told Clarence. A thousand times, ever since it happened. You think we can, what, call a city ambulance? The Profs prints would fall like a cinderblock on an egg. Theyd handcuff him to the bed and turn the whole place into a goddamn PBA convention.

I could

You cant do anything! I snapped at him, as sharply as his father would have.

When you were shot

Your fathermy father, too, remember?he made the call then. And he made the right one. This one isnt the same; the minute we unhook the Prof from those machines, hes done. This call was on me to make, and I made it. Now we have to play it out.

If any of those doctors

Max pulled at the sleeve of Clarences jacket, the same dove-gray cashmere hed been wearing the night we dropped the Prof offnow it was almost black, darkened with fear. When Clarence looked up, the mute Mongolian made the universal gesture of pointing his finger like a pistol and dropping his thumb like a hammer. Then tapped his temple, and made a facial expression that spoke louder than words.

You think those medical boys dont fucking know that? I echoed. Theyre not worried about some malpractice claim. Theyre running an outlaw operation, and they get paid a fortune to take care of people from our world. Thats what were paying so much for: not just the care, the risktheyre putting a lot more than their licenses on the line, understand? Thats why you never threaten people like themtheyve heard it all before. It wont make them work harder. But it might scare them into doing something stupid.

Butfor what they are charging, even with all the money we took from that lastthing, we will run out by

I know, I said soothingly. But dont worry about it, Clarence. We found a new way to keep earning.

Nobody told me

You had no role to play in this one, son, I said, channeling the Prof. Not up till now, anyway.

Listen to me, sweetheart. Michelle spoke just above a whisper, her voice the same mystery-blend as her perfume. Trust me, the words out: the Profs in the consultant business now. Any serious thief playing for a retirement score would want the Master to check over the plans, make sure theres no flaw. But they wouldnt expect a face-to-face. So the Profs got a front man for that. Get it?

Yes, the Islander said, looking over at me and nodding. But how is that going to bring in the kind of money we?

It already is, I cut him off. Got more business than we can handle. Were even ready to have you start working backup, too. If you want.

Clarence opened his mouth to say something, but Max just shook his head.

Mama crossed the distance from her register at the front to my booth in the back. Looked us all over. Held Clarence with her eyes. Said, Movie business very good. Those kind of people, spend money like drunks.

Clarence opened his mouth again, but this time it was Michelle who shut him up. Weve got a doctor too, baby. A script doctor. Best in the business. The only one who gets his quote and a percentage of the gross. Lets you and me go over there and sit down, okay? Buy your baby sister a drink, and Ill explain it all to you.

* * *

The apartment was spacious by New York standards. Three bedrooms, two baths. And on a decent West Side block, too.

But this was no luxury co-op. No awning over the front door. No doorman, never mind a concierge. No central air. The elevator only went downall the way down. From a uniformed operator, to push-your-own-damn-buttons, to permanent Out of Service.

Even the super was part-time. His one qualification was that hed done time, and his real job was handling complaints with a you dont want to go too far with this look.

Thirty-six units, but only five of them still occupied. The building owner was warehousing the rest, playing stare-down with the remaining owners. No real-estate broker had any of the empty units listed.

Some of the holdouts had been stupid enough to try bribing the super. He introduced them to the Sucker Two-Step. Step one, he takes your money. Step two comes when you run into him againa blank look, like hes never seen you before.

When it comes to bribery, citizens are out of their league. Even in this everything-for-sale pesthole of a city, you cant run to the cops when the guy you greased doesnt do what you paid him forthat would be like a loan shark suing you for missing a payment.

We paid the super for access to the apartment. Not a bribe: payment for a service. He didnt try his look on usits our kind he learned it from. He wasnt a genius, but he was smart enough not to confuse us with citizens.

The cell phone in the right-hand pocket of my jacket vibrated. My clients were on their way upup the stairs. I nodded to Max. He opened the door just as they were about to push the disconnected buzzer.

The doctor was in.

* * *

There were three of them. Nice business suits, nothing too flashy. I knew the headman by rep only. He may have looked like a pita pocket overstuffed with suet, but if crime was a dance, he had the moves of a tango star.

The other two could have been his partners. Or crew members, or undercover cops. The way we had it set up, it didnt make any difference. Any tape they walked away with would be about as useful as a Vietnam body count.

My worktable was a rough-hewn slab of wood with fold-up legs. I gestured for them to sit wherever they wanted. Canvas directors chairs were the only option.

Nobody offered to shake hands. As I leaned back, Michelle swiveled over. All they saw was a blonde in a red latex derma-sheath skirt and a padded bra threatening a stretchy topif they even looked high enough up to see the blonde part. She held out a tray of plain glass ashtrays. The guy to the left of the headman took one, placed it carefully in front of him.

Michelle snake-hipped her way out of the room, making it clear that theyd already experienced the full extent of our hospitality. No minibar in this hotel, and the only room service you could order was already in the room.

The headman opened a document case, took out some paper and a chrome pen. He cleared his throat, said:

Now, the way weve got this scripted, the wealthy guys seen all the movies, so he wouldnt rely on any motion-sensor system. He thinks you can blow talcum powder into the room, make all the laser beams show up. His smile was room-temperature.

I consulted the graph-paper pad in front of me. It was covered in tiny, autistic symbols. So hes afraid some gymnast in a leotard

You got it, the raisin-eyed pile of dough seated across from me agreed. Were looking for realism here. Remember, this is an indie production; we dont have a few extra million to waste on special effects. Sowhat the guy in our script does, he keeps the stuff in a bunker.

You mean like one of those old-time bomb shelters, or just a safe buried in the ground?

Totally fucking nuclear, the blob said, catching a confirmatory nod from the non-smoker to his righta solidly built guy in his forties who was either too image-conscious to be saying, Yeah, boss, in front of strangers, or an undercover still feeling his way. It had been that guys call to Mamas that set this ride in motion, but he wasnt the one with the gas money.

You have him living in there? I asked the boss. Inside the bunker, I mean?

Nah. But he could, is the point.

Youre saying, in this script, the way its set up, all he has to do is make it inside the bunker before the take-away guys get to him, right? Then he could just kick back in the La-Z-Boy, toss some porno into his DVD player, and sip fine wine until the cops show up?

Not cops, the blob said, with an absolute sureness that meant whatever they intended to snatch was something the victim couldnt report to his insurance company. Straight out of the pro thiefs bible: the best thing to steal is stolen property.

Cops, guaranteed, I contradicted him. Sure, a guy with whatever this ones got stashed away isnt going to give the Law a chance to see it for themselves. So hes going to have all kinds of communication equipment in thereprobably an underground cable to an Internet connection that youd have to dig up the whole backyard to find. All he needs to do is go online, click a mouse, and in comes the cavalry. His own cavalry.

Not a chance, the headman dismissed my concerns. Look, unless whatever this guys got stashedthat doesnt matter, we can write it in lateractually gets taken, theres no movie. We start from there, which means he never makes it into the bunker.

Get real, I shot back. Youre trying to tell me, the kind of neighborhood where you have this one set, people hear an explosion big enough to blast open that bunker, theyre not going to be hitting nine-one-one like an old lady in Atlantic City jacking the lever on the slots?

All three of them nodded without exchanging looks. None of them spoke.

Bottom line: you need to flip this whole script, I told them. When you show the heist team planning the job, they have to be figuring on two things: one, the guy with the stash never makes it into his bunker, and, two, they do. This isnt some safe youd be cracking, or even a bank vault. Not only would you need a lot more than a few vials of nitro, youd have to be working outdoors, with no cover. One nosy neighbor and you never even get a chance to blast your way in. And, like I said, even if you could, the place would be surrounded by the time you walked out.

Well, what, then? the blob asked. He wasnt agitated or annoyed, just expecting to get what hed paid for. All thieves at his level were practicing Utilitarians: if you had skills they wanted, they had the priceand the patience. To this guy, everything was job-dependent. For some scores, a molecular biologist would be hired help. For this one, he needed a script doctor who wasnt going to go running to the Guild demanding screen credit.

Lifes a gamble; all that ever changes is the odds. But in my world, theres no track take-out on the betting pool, and no IRS waiting at the finish line if your horse comes in.

And men like the blob sitting across from me only make one of two bets: fold, or all-in.

So he doesnt live in the bunker? I asked, giving him the choice.

The blob went all-in. Hes crazy, but not that kind of crazy.

So its all down to timing, then.

He made an Im listening gesture.

The guy to his left reached into his jacket. I couldnt see behind him, but I knew a red laser-dot had just blossomed on the back of his neck. Clarence. Positioned around the cornertriangle-braced, a silenced 9mm in his hands. At that distance he could center-punch a microbe.

The guy came out with a single cigarette, lit up, carefully blew the smoke away from me.

My turn. So the tension-point is, the thieves have got to get to this guy before he gets to the bunker. Agreed?

Okay, but were showing him like one of those nigger bosses. Not here, I mean, like in Africa. Never goes anywhere without a fucking army around him. Not bodyguards, guys who hold rank.

Drives an armored car? I asked, wishing these guys would remember to stay in character, but not all that disappointed. To be disappointed, first you have to be surprised.

Gets driven, the headman said. Theres companies wholl make one for you. Any specs you want: bulletproof glass, armored sides, blast-plate underneath, all that. You end up with a four-ton Caddy or whatever, but, for driving around the city, who cares? But if you blow up the car with him in it, you might never get inside that bunker. That ruins everything. The plot, I mean.

I closed my eyes for a minute, as if I was working through the script again. Scribbled a few more symbols on my pad.

What do we know about them? I asked.

Who?

The ones who go everywhere with the general.

Hows that important? the blob asked, leaning forward with his voice, the way his body would have if it could.

Well, this isnt a blank-page script youre consulting me on. My job is just fixing the ending. If you want me to figure out how to make it work, I have to know what Im working with.

He glanced at the man to his left. Said: Lets say maybe we could show the audience some of their private lives, if we had to.

I grudgingly gave him a little credit for at least trying to stay in character, said, Youd have to get in pretty deep to make that work.

Girlfriend-on-the-side, youre thinking?

No, I dismissed that nonsense. Good enough excuse if you need a sex scene, but it wont work for getting to whatevers inside that bunker. What we need is their personalities. How they got to be where they are. Youre not talking about hired help here. From the way youve got it scripted, these are guys he came up with.

From the sandbox.

And this guy, hes not a family man.

Only thing this guy knows about guineas is that they do nice tile work, the blob said, grinning. The man on his right tightened his face. Just a touch, but more than I needed to make the diagnosis.

So the people around this guy, close to him, there has to be a way they got there, I said. I mean, none of them are on top. You said your man was the ace, right? So the guys under him, how did those cards get dealt?

The blobs face flexed enough to show me he was on the same page.

Were not looking for a bent guy we can turn. The way in is to find one who wants to be the ace, understand? I asked, making sure.

How?

Parallelism, I said, letting my Hollywood expertise show. We could split the screen: One side, we show a little military coup, like the one they had in Fiji. On the other side, its the same thing, only its happening to your guy. Nobodys dressed in uniforms, but we get the same resulttotal takeover.

But our guy, he cant be killed, the blob said. Just because a mans close to the king dont mean hes got the keys to the castle. Keys, get it?

I twisted my lips to certify the blobs cleverness. After all, he was the wordsmith; I was just the man he was hiring to consult on a script-fix project.

Then it comes down to surveillance, I said. Plenty of ways to show that, but it could cost a lot of screen time. Better to add a reach-out.

Reach-out means sell-out?

More than that, I told the blob. The character youre looking for, money wont work. What he wants is to be the man, not work for him, okay? And when the targets in his own car, surrounded by his own boys, thats when hes most vulnerable.

Youre losing me.

The plot hinges on what the target keeps in that bunker of his, right?

Right.

And he built it to be blast-proof?

The blob nodded.

Hes the only one who knows how to open it?

Another nod.

Okay, then. You have to get to him before he gets inside. Thats the plot-point, like you saideverything works off that. Either this guys got some kind of disguised door-opener thats always with him, or theres some other way in, like a touchpad code number. Either way, he has to be made to give it up, and that could take some time.

Another nod.

Okay, picture this: Four men in the car. Ones the boss, the only one with the key. We want one of the others, the one who needs to be the boss. Find him; make the deal. And then it comes down to this: four get in, two get out.

Does it have to be the driver who turns?

It can be anyone you want, I said. Hell, its a movie, not real life, so what does it matter? The guy who thinks hes going to end up being the boss, nobodys going to pat him down, right? And we know the boss wont be doing the driving.

Your guy makes his move while theyre still parked. Remember, those armored cars, theyve got blacked-out windows and tons of baffling; he wouldnt even need a silencer.

Two quick pops, and the four is down to two. Then the shooter taps his cell phone, and your people move in. One of your guys gets in behind the wheel, then both cars take off.

Once the patsy hands over the bossthe ex-boss now, he thinksyou can write your own ending.

* * *

It took them only a couple of minutes to get out of the building, but it took us the rest of the afternoon to move the table and chairs down to the basement, scour the apartment, and give the whole area a final visual sweep.

If anyone ever came back there, the only difference between it and the other warehoused units would be that the one wed used would be CSI-clean.

* * *

Not all the scripts were for major productions.

One group was very interested in a plot where the bad guys get a service tech to swap out the hard drive in one of those gigantic pay-to-use photocopy machines you can find in any of those joints that offer copying, fax, printing, and anything else a hustler with a cell phone needs to set up his office.

In my revised screenplay, the new hard drive looks exactly like the one that came with the machine, but this one has a little USB portjust plug in a programmed memory stick and wait for it to fill up. Most of what you siphon out is useless, but its like panning for goldall you need is one big nugget, and they have search programs for that.

Always amazes me how people think theyre being anonymous by using a public library or an Internet café. Keep clearing that cache, suckers; thatll fucking do it. Clowns who sign up for some free service that anonymizes their e-mails never stop to think that while theyre flaming each other in newsgroups, somebody else is collecting all their actual addressesIPs and all.

You can usually turn stupidity into money, but any good 419 man knows it takes more than stupidity alone to sell the heavier schemes. That recipe always needs at least a pinch of greed to make it palatable enough to swallow.

Nigeria originated this con: 419 is a section of their criminal code, so they get scam-trademark status, like Ponzi scheme. The mark gets an overseas e-mail from someone who has managed to divert a certain sum of moneytwenty million or soby depositing it in a Swiss bank. But this person has a problem, which is why hes contacting you. A source, who cannot be named, has vouched for you as a person of discretion, honesty, and intelligence.

The current fave is Nepal. Now the source can vouch for your deep concern for human rights, too.

Of course, this person cant transfer that kind of money to his bank account; thats where you come in. All you have to do is open a Swiss account of your owndetailed instructions included. Soon as you do that, the money he diverted gets transferred to you. After a suitable waiting period, you send it back to the thief. Of course, there would be a commission involved for your troublesay, 10 percent? All you have to do is open that account, wait a little bitand presto! youre a couple of million to the good.

Thats where your honesty comes in. Your new pal is counting on you to come through, do the right thing, take care of him. After all, youve been vouched for, so he knows you wont just keep the whole twenty mil for yourself, the way some crooks would.

Costs nine grand to open your own Swiss account. Should be more, of course, but everyone knows youve got to stay under ten on wire transfers, and the last thing anyone wants is the governmentany governmentpoking its nose into this one, right, pal? What could be simpler?

You couldnt be, sucker. Open that Swiss account, send the password, and your nine grand is vacuumed out in seconds. The stupideror greedieryou are, the longer it takes you to wake up and smell the scam.

Ah, its not that bad. You get to go on TV and tell the world how you were victimized. And how youre just telling your story because you want to protect others who might fall into the same insidious trap.

Uh-huh.

The Internet didnt create kiddie porn, but it sure made selling it easier. Spam-and-scam artists dont even have to spend money on postage or faxes anymore. But they still need a database to work from.

So help yourself to another free e-mail address. Post your contact information on your personal Web site. Add your kids photo to your blog. Then call me a cold-hearted bastard when I dont give a damn about you being cyber-stalked.

* * *

My father is one of Jahs Men, Clarence said. Jahs protection is on him, always.

Michelle shot him a look. She held it only a nanosecond before shifting it to me, but she was way too slowClarence could beat a scorpion to the draw.

No, no, little sister, he told her, not offended. You think I mean those boys who wear their dreads and beads, smoke the ganja, listen to reggae? No. I am not speaking of some club you can join, like being a Rasta-man. Jahs Men are chosen.

The Prof always said he had the call

You see, then?

You can be called home, too, son, I said, not pulling the punch.

He is not going, the young man said, his voice so heavy with his own helplessness that the words fell of their own weight.

Max held his hands apart. Glanced from one to the other. Bowed slightly.

If he goes, it would be his choice, I translated.

My father would never surrender.

Couldnt spell the word, I agreed. But I want to ask you a question, Clarence. And I want you to listen, okay?

He nodded, brotherhood overpowering resentment.

If you had the choice of living so that you had no control over what you do, a brain inside a body, but no power over that body, would you choose that life? Would you want someone to feed you, change your diaper?

I would never allow

I know youd do it for him, Clarence. He knows, too. You think he wants to put you in that position? You want that to be his last thought? The last thing he sees? You want to take that from him? This is your father! Show some respect.

The young man broke, sobs razoring his heart. Michelle moved close to him, just barely touching physically, but still holding him.

John Henry never dies on his knees, I reminded my little brother.

Silence dropped like a shroud, transporting us all back to how the Prof had ended up caught between worlds.

* * *

Clarence blasted the Roadrunner down the narrow corridor like he was running for pinks. I spotted a black blotch against the wall just ahead, screamed: Stop!

The four-piston calipers locked like a heavy anchor in hot tar. I was out the door while it was still skidding, hit the ground rolling.

Prof! I screamed. The little man was lying with his back to the wall. I couldnt see anything but blood where his right thigh should have been.

I knelt next to him as Clarence charged toward us, holding his pistol like a voodoo fetish against the descending panic.

Get that ride outta here, quick! the Prof gasped. Too big a target.

Prof

I was inside, cross the way, the little man wheezed out. He twisted his head toward a closed-down factory building. I was on full ghost, but the motherfuckers peeped me anywaymust have had an electronic eye somewhere. I thought Id got away clean, but they got a rifleman on the top floor. Left corner window.

Pain flashed across his face. Ten, twelve more of them up there with him, too. Full gear. Probably be coming down this way any second. A warriors grin drove the pain from his eyes. That is, if they got the ballsI fed em some lead before I fled. Now go!

We will not

You hush, boy! the Prof snapped at Clarence. Im all done, son. But I can buy you enough time to get gone.

Father

The Profs eyelids fluttered. My turn: Get the car around that corner, where that sniper cant see it, I ordered Clarence. Pop the trunk. Ive got something in there for him.

The Profs eyes snapped back into life. A bubble of blood was in his mouth from where hed bitten into his lip to revive himself. Do like you told, boy! he barked, his hard voice too full of love to be disobeyed.

A piece of the wall flew off just above us. I hadnt heard the shotthe shooter must be using a suppressor.

Cocksucker aint hardly no Wesley, the little man sneered. I been laying here like a paper target, and he already missed me twice.

I leaned close, needing to catch every word, but desperate to get to my car.

Honor thy father, he whispered. Call my name, son. My true name. Call it! Call it loud, so those whores know whos gonna be barring the door.

John Henry! I screamed with everything I had in me.

The war cry pulled the Prof back from the brink. I could see a golden blaze flare in his all-seeing brown eyes.

Fetch me my hammer, son! the little man commanded. Time to drive some steel for real.

I was frozentrapped between the two most compelling forces of my life.

Get gone, Schoolboy, he assured me. Ill be waiting when you show up. Me and that hound of yours.

I kissed him. Another shot splattered concrete dust over us both. I pulled a fistful of double-zero shells from the Profs side pocket, lined them up on his right side. Found his sawed-off 12-gauge a few feet away, placed it reverently in his right hand. Then I ran for the corner.

The Roadrunners trunk was open, but Clarence wasnt in the car. He was down on one knee, pistol out, a rabid wolf on a gossamer leash.

I grabbed the RPG out of the trunk, shouldered it, shouted, Get behind the fucking wheel!and ran back the way Id come.

The Prof was still down, but his sawed-off was up and ready for business. The concrete around his leg was a spreading red stain.

He never saw me as I dropped to one knee, sighted, and let loose at the snipers roost, screaming, Die! inside my heart, like Id been doing since I was a kid. I could actually feel my hate raging inside that whistling warhead, deadlier than the shaped charge it carried.

* * *

In some professions, plastic surgery is a business expense. I remember a woman whose husbands cash had greased the skids for her political career. She finally overdosed on her own press releases and decided her act could play even better in a bigger room. Desperate to stay telegenic, shed had so many facelifts that her eyes became the side-glancing goggles of natural-born prey.

The only difference between her and the dancers who buy spine-herniating implants is the price they pay to stay on the stage.

On my side of the law, you dont use plastic surgery to steal; you use it so you can keep stealing.

So when I didnt recognize the face of the slender, colorless man who showed up for the script consult, I didnt have an anxiety attack.

The guy who had called to hire my services was an established pro, but violence wasnt in his repertoire. Id never known his name, and a new face might have been a smart investment, considering he was a specialized-target art thief who never varied his MO.

He put in years of research on Nazi-looted canvases. Not the ones in museums or sitting in Swiss bank vaults; the ones kept, very discreetly, in trophy rooms.

The paintings arent the trophies; the power to acquire them is. And such power must be displayed.

This guy had everything he needed to get himself invited to some of those displays: that unbeatable combo of contacts, connections, and cash.

He wasnt one of those hit-or-miss thieves who have their bondsmans name memorized. No, this guy was so slick youd have a better chance of picking up a drop of mercury with a pair of Teflon toothpicks. Plenty of high-skill operators could brag theyd never been arrested; this guy had never been suspected.

He could only make a move every few years, and his expenses were high, but he never let ego interfere with his pursuit of perfection. For him, paying for a script consultation was nothing more than checking the extra insurance box on a rental car.

But as soon as the man sitting across from me put his hands on the table, I knew he wasnt the art thief. It was the webbed fingers that tipped me. And I knew the tip was deliberate.

After the first time wed met, a few lifetimes ago, Id done some research. Simple syndactyly is what doctors call his condition. Simple means only the flesh is joined, not the bone; the attachment only goes as far as the first set of knuckles.

The condition is congenitalyoure born with itand easily correctable. Best if the surgery is performed during infancy or as soon as possible afterwards, but it can be done at any age, and its about as low on the risk scale as any flesh-cutting could be.

No question that the man across from mePryce was the name I knew him bycould afford the best. But he liked his little jokes. I figure thats where he picked his name from, too.

Why he changed his face so many times but always left his physical ID in place was something it might take an army of therapists to unravel.

I smiled to myself at the thought: the only way Pryce would ever go near a mind-man would be to hire him to probe into someone else. A surgeons scalpel can only open your flesh, not your secrets.

I didnt know what Pryce wanted, but having the art-thief specialist make the call was his way of telling me he knew what I was doing for a living these days. Getting a man to make a phone call isnt hard if you can get him killed just by making one yourself. Pryce was a certified no-limit man. Everyone in my world knew the only thing he wouldnt do was bluff.

The first time wed met, he told me hed planted an informant inside one of those leaderless cells that were all the rage in the White Night underground after Oklahoma City. The agent he was running had an infant son, but his wife had fled with the baby. She was somewhere inside a safe house, one run by a network Pryce had never penetrated.

Id known about Pryce for a long time before that meeting. Of him, anyway. He was some kind of psycho-patriot, a man who drew his own maps. But he was a purist in his own way: whatever he worked for wasnt people, it was someconcept in his deranged mind. Administrations changed; Pryce didnt.

The cell where his informant was planted was planning some major act of terrorism, details not yet known. One problem: the informant was demanding possession of his son as payment for staying on the job.

I had a problem, too, but picking a winner wouldnt fix it. I needed to hit the exacta: a walk-away for my brother Hercules, whod finally managed to bulldoze his fool self into an escape-proof box, and a disappearance for the same baby Pryce wanted to hand over to his informant.

We made a trade.

That was then. Now he was sitting across from me again. Just a couple of old buddies, playing five-card stud. The minute he let me recognize him, we were down to his last draw, but that didnt matterit was his hole card I had to pay to see. So I kept playingplaying like he was there for the script consult the art thief had called about.

The way to make this work is change the house to a custom-built one, I said, tapping my pad.

What good does that?

The guy youre looking for would be a subcontractor. The electrician, specifically. Anything he installs, he knows how to make it malfunction. Just a little twist on the standard route. The pro burglar looks for the guy who reads the gas meter, the maid, anyone who has regular inside access. What he ends up with is the whole schematic: floor plans, security systems, like that.

Thats fine for cash or jewels, but not for what your script calls for. No maid ever gets near your targets trophy room; the meter reader probably doesnt even know it exists. The architect would know theres space there, but not what its used for. When it comes to lighting, air quality, temperature, stuff like that, the electricians the one you want.

But wouldnt the cops immediately suspect him? Pryce said, still playing the role.

If anyone reported the theft, they might.

He nodded.

Okay, I went on. So the way the script starts, the stars just a regular B and E man. Top-quality, but no specialist. One night, he gets inside a house. The camera shows him looking around for the goods. Then he stumbles across the trophy room.

Soon as he sees it, he knows theres something special kept in there. All this money spent just to build a setup like that, whatevers inside has to be worth serious bucks.

Immediately, he knows hes out of his league. So he slips out without taking anything. Then he starts poking aroundyou can have him doing it on the Net; theres Web sites that list the stuff, with images and everything. Makes a nice visual, too. Thats when your guy has thiswhat did you call it again?

Epiphany, the man across from me repeated.

Right. So he finds that electrician. Pays him a fat wad of cash to cause the system to malfunctionthat can be done over the line, no need to go anywhere near the house. Naturally, the trophy-collector calls the same guy who installed the system to come in and fix it. And while this electricians doing that, earning triple-time plus a bonus, he plants a locator.

A what?

You can program a device no bigger than this, I said, holding up a nickel-sized disksame circumference, but much thinnerso that it alerts at the presence ofhell, anything. This was like showing a surgeon what a scalpel looks like, but Pryce went along with the gag.

Like canvas, he said, as if hed just caught wise.

Exactly. Its a transmitter. You download all the info, check off the known missing works, and one of them will match.

Thats brilliant, he said. You should have been a screenwriter.

And you should have just called.

Pryce shook his head. He opened his palm, the webbed fingers on snare-drummers wrists underscoring that he hadnt tried to trick me. I dont like phones. Besides, its been a long time.

Not long enough.

Just in time, actually, he said, turning over his hole card: A private hospital. Top of the line. Best doctors on the planet. And you can visit. All of you. In the state hes in, he hears your voices, it could make a difference. All the difference.

I didnt pretend I didnt know what he was talking about, but I sat back as if I was stunned, using the time to think of a way to get him to up the payoff. Because with what he was offering, he had to want something way off the charts in return.

Herk and Vyra are doing fine, Pryce said, lighting a clove cigarette as he stepped inside my thoughts.

I made a So what? gesture with my shoulders. Vyra had been a lot of different things before she met Hercules, including a rich mans wife. When Herk disappeared, so had she.

They wanted to get married, Pryce said, the expression on his face just short of rolling his eyes at the strangeness of some people. New York has archaic laws for contested divorces. Adultery counts, and so does abandonment, but thats what she did, not him. The husband didnt want to let her go. Not even when she offered to sign away everything, including the joint account and the house.

I shrugged.

We could erase Herculesright back to the cradle. But Vyra had no record to clean, and a name change would make any marriage to Herk void ab initio. That means

That you speak Latin, or hang around too many lawyers.

You want to know what happened or not?

I dont even know who youre babbling about, I said. Pryces native tongue was Oblique, so maybe he was reminding me of the deal that put Herk inside the same cell where Pryce was running an informantand the insurance policy Id added. Not double indemnity, double-barreled. The policy turned Pryces new man into his only manand showed him who hed really signed up with at the same time.

I played the old tape in my mind, knowing Pryce was doing the same.

* * *

The white Taurus was parked on the street. No other car was close, but the block wasnt deserted: People walking around, maybe from the change-of-shift at some of the nearby factories, maybe locals. Cars crawled by, too.

I pulled in behind, leaving myself room enough to drive away without backing up first. Lets do it, I said to Herk.

Pryce must have been watchingthe back doors of the sedan popped open as we walked toward it. We climbed in, Herk behind Pryce, me behind Lothar. Pryce turned to look at me. Lothar stared straight ahead, as if the windshield held vital secrets.

All right, lets hear this big emergency of yours, Pryce half-sighed.

I want Herk to get his immunity now, I told him. Before this goes another step.

That wasnt the

Thats the deal now, I said. Ive got a lawyer in place. You say when, hell come downtown, youll put the whole thing together. Probably take less than an hour.

You cant expect to have that sort of payment in front, Pryce said, annoyed at my mulishness. You know better than that. Everybody will get taken care of at the same time. As we agreed.

Me, I think Lothars already been taken care of.

Thats different, Pryce lied, switching to the flat officialese they teach you in FBI school. Lothar is an undercover operative of the United States government.

Sos Herk, now.

But myemployers dont need him, Pryce said, in the patient voice you use on a slow student. They dont even know he exists yet.

How do I know youre going to come through?

Ive done everything I promised so far, havent I? Youre just going to have to trust me.

I sat there quietly as a woman trundled past, pulling one of those little grocery carts behind her. Then I took out a thick tube of baffled steel, said, Lothar? When he turned sideways to listen, I put a slug in his temple.

It didnt make much noise, even in the closed car.

You got it wrong, I told Pryce, as Lothar slumped over. Youre going to have to trust me.

Lothars head lolled forward, his body held in place by the seatbelt. I grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him back so it looked like he was just sitting there. There was no blood, just a round little black dot on his templea reverse birthmark. Some of the powder had been removed from the cartridge to make it subsonic; the slug was still somewhere in Lothars diseased brain.

You

Pryce cut himself off, out of words.

I wasnt. Now were gonna find out, I told him, watching his hands in case he moved wrong. If it came to that, Herk would have to snap his neck from behindthe piece Id used couldnt be reloaded.

Look, I said, my voice as calm as a Zen rock garden, Lothar was stalking his wife. Thats a fact, well-documented. Theres even an Order of Protection; you know that, too. Now, heres what happened:

Lothar was spotted breaking into his wifes house. She isnt there anymore, but he couldnt have known that. Lothar had all his freak-tools with him: handcuffs, duct tape. He was going to kill his wife and kidnap the baby. But first he was going to teach that race-traitor bitch a lesson.

Nine-one-one goes off. Luckily, a sector cars only a few blocks from the house. Soon as the cops roll up, Lothar knows hes done. Decides to shoot it out. Gunfires exchanged.

The result of that is sitting right next to you. Just add a few more rounds to the body. Use different gunsthat way, more hero cops can get their medals. And be sure to blow away a chunk of his head.

Thats the story that needs to get in the news. The others in the cell will find out what happened, probably on TV. It wont surprise them, either. They all knew Lothar was a sex-torture freaklook how they found him in the first place. And he never stopped ranting about what he wanted to do to his wife.

Get it? That leaves Herk. Hes your inside man now. Your only one. And he needs that immunity. Or the faucet gets turned off.

Youre insane, Pryce said, not turning around.

The street was quiet.

People could argue about that, maybe, I told him. But nobodys gonna argue about Lothar being dead.

You expect me to drive around with a dead body and

I dont care what you do. Its time to prove up now, I finished. If youre the real thing, you can make it happen. And if youre not, its all over, anyway.

You got no more cards to play, Pryce. You thought you knew me. Now you do. You take down the safe house, you dime out Vyra to her husband, you turn Porkpies testimony loose on Herculesany of that, youre finished, pal. I dont care what you put in the street, youll never find all of us, because you dont know all of us. But one of us will sure as hell find you.

Get out of the car, he said in a tight, controlled voice. Get out now. Ill call you.

We watched the white Taurus drive away. Smooth and steady.

I crossed the bridge into Manhattan. Pulled up to a deli on Delancey. A Latino in an old army field jacket was leaning against the wall, just out of the rain. He walked over to my Plymouth.

Herk rolled down his window. The guy stuck his head inside, nodded at me. He went into the deli, came back with a paper bag full of sandwiches and a couple of bottles of apple juice.

I glove-handed him the wiped-down steel tube and a packet of five C-notes. He pocketed both and walked off.

Back in the car, Herk turned to me. Burke, Im with you, no matter what, you know that. I dont gotta understand why you did all that, but

You know what happens when a raccoon gets his leg caught in one of those steel traps, brother? You know what hes got to do, he wants to live?

Bite the leg off, the big man said. He probably couldnt spell education, but he had a Ph.D. in Survival.

Yeah. Theres two kinds of raccoons get caught in those traps. The ones with balls enough to do what they gotta do. And dead ones. A bitch raccoon gets in heat, she wants a stud thats gonna give her the strongest babies, understand? You know what she looks for? Not the biggest raccoon. Not the prettiest one, either. A smart bitch, she looks for one with three legs.

I get it, Burke. But we got a problem. I think, anyway.

What?

Theres a meeting. Tonight.

Damn! Why didnt you?

I forgot, the dumbfuck giant said glumly. Until just now. Im sorry.

Jesus, Herk. Even if Pryce goes for it, he cant make it happen right now. Hes gonna need a day or so, minimum. The best we can hope for is the newspaper story. I thought wed get to stand by and watch: Pryce makes it happen, then I believe he can do the immunity thing, see? Thats when I was going to have this lawyer I hired go in and tighten that up for you. But if you go to that meeting and Lothar isnt there

Hes not supposed to be there, right?

Huh?

I mean, hes supposed to be out stalking his wife, right? And if Pryce comes through, he gets smoked doing it. No way I could know about that. None of us could. Why shouldnt I just roll on into the meeting? It aint like me and Lothar was supposed to be cut-buddies anyway.

Herk, thats if Pryce goes along, I said, thinking maybe the big man wasnt half the dummy we all took him for. Not anymore, anyway. Thats if he can do it, even if he wants to. Thats if he hasnt already decided to cut his losses and take down the whole fucking crew. If you knew about the meeting tonight, Lothar did, too. So he probably told Pryce.

What else can I do, brother?

You could jet, I told him.

I was gonna do that, whatd you take Lothar off the count for? I aint that stupid. I know what you was talking about. It was Lothar who got cut down, but me, Im the one on three legs. So Im hobbling, okay. But, fuck it, Im hobbling in.

We touched fists. I hoped it wasnt for the last time.

* * *

The way it turned out, Pryce did his part. And Herk went on to do his. The night the cells plan was supposed to go down, a lot of men ended up dead on lower Broadway, but Federal Plaza stayed up. That was years before 9/11, but so was the first attempt to blow up the World Trade Center. The governments always listening in, but it never learns to listen good.

Pryce wasnt an outlaw like us. There was always work the government needed done, so unemployment wasnt one of his worries. No surprise hed been plugged into the White Night underground. He had informants all over the country, on both sides of the Walls. Some people thought he was a myth; others thought he was a magician. Thats the rep you earn when you always find the tools you need to do a job. Any job.

Pryce wasnt some fantasy-world spook. He knew survival wasnt about staying in the shadows; it was about never casting one.

Maybe youre more interested in current events? he said.

I shrugged again. I didnt know what he was going to say, but I knew it wouldnt be a threat. Pryce had already seen for himself how far Id go if anyone threatened my family. Seen a piece of it, anyway.

The Prof needs his right leg amputated, he said, like a mechanic saying you needed a valve job. It should have been done a while ago. Theyve been keeping him in a comatose state so they can use an air tourniquet on the femoral artery, but he cant stay like that for much longer. Not only dont they have the facilities to do a perfect cut-and-reattach, they dont have a prosthesis-maker, a rehab facility, or a

I held up my hand, meaning, Enough! That didnt stop him from talking, or even modulate his tone.

Theyre afraid, he said, in that same mechanics-report voice. Everyone on your side of the fence knows the deal with that place they run. They dont report gunshot wounds, and they fix whatever they canbullet extractions, stitching, just about any kind of patch-up work. Theyve got all the antibiotics, and they can even handle transfusions.

He paused, waiting for me to be impressed that Id recently learned that one way to pay for blood is to replenish the supply. When I didnt react, he rolled right on: But they dont have a cath lab or a

I raised my eyebrows. All the communication he was going to get, until he got to what he wanted.

He moved his head just enough to show me that he wasnt trying to outwait me, then spread his hand on the table between us. Their thinking is this: If they cut, and the old man dies, theyre sure youd send them along to keep him company. And if they dont cut, and he never comes out of that coma, theyre convinced theyll all end up in one.

I just watched him.

It may surprise you, he said, with just the barest trace element of sarcasm in his metallic voice, but there seem to be a number of people there who believe if anything happened to that old man you might just lose it and turn their whole operation into a slaughterhouse.

So? I said, knowing there had to be more.

So they made a phone call, Pryce said. But what they had to say wasnt news tous.

The heat from where Clarence was stationed was starting to peel the paint off the wall behind me.

We have the whole thing on video, he said, more like a prosecutor than a mechanic now. I didnt know you had access to that level of ordnance. That sniper you blew uphe was ours. In fact, the whole team up there was. We had our own operation in place, took years to set up. We had no idea you were going to make a move on our targets.

I speak Pryces language, so the translation was instantaneous: ordnance meant the RPG Id shoulder-fired at the snipers roost; ours meant someone paid by the same agency that paid him.

I knew Pryce wasnt there about payback; he doesnt get emotional over chess pieces. The sniper who had tried for the Prof was a paid assassin. Didnt know who he was aiming at, didnt care. Nothing personal. Not for him, anyway.

But Pryce hadnt stopped by to shoot the breeze with an old friend, either. Pryce didnt have friends.

Let me guess, I said, contempt making a crop-dusters pass over my voice. Homeland Security, right?

And you dont care about that? he shot back. No, thats right. Youre not a patriot, youre a borderlord, arent you? You should read some of Marc MacYoungs work. Very enlightening.

I gave him a blank look.

Dont cross your lines, and the rest of the world can blow itself up, far as youre concerned, he decoded for me.

And your point iswhat? Im not a terrorist; Im a thief, remember? I half-answered, sidestepping around that video. I believed Pryce had it, sure, but I also knew he wouldnt turn it over to the Law. Why bother? You lose one shooter, you just hire another.

Just say what you want, I told him. No point pretending I had any negotiating room; if I turned down any chance to save the Prof, Clarence would have shot me.

Theres more than that on offer, Pryce said, as if I hadnt spoken. I can do magic tricks, too. Like make prints disappear.

From?

Everywhere theyre logged. Local, state, federal, international. On all of you. Every single one.

Why? You gonna make us all legit so your bosses can make us pay income tax?

You already do, he said, flexing again. Scott Thomas does, anyway. And Juan Rodriguez did before him. I hit the right switch and you wont need to fly under the radar anymore. You know you could never get far enough under so I couldnt find you, anyway.

Some doors swing both ways, I bluffed.

Listen, he said, a thin vein of urgency in his toneless voice. Weve got a narrow window. Every election, the system changes.

Politicians

Not that system, he said dismissively. Not the future, the past. Right this minute, we have total access, but thats not for long. Theres two ways to alter existing info: delete it, or overwrite it. Our way, Burke stays dead. Scott Thomas lives. Or anyone else you pick. Backdated IRS, everything. But it all has to happen quick, understand?

If you say so, I said.

Flower has a wonderful future, he snapped out, as precisely deadly as a balisong artist.

I slipped the thrust, said: Theyre both W-2s. Her father works in a restaurant; her mother is a social worker. Maxs prints are in the system, but only for arrests, no convictions. And Flowers on scholarship, anyway. Merit scholarship.

The

Save it, I cut him short. Whats with all this paper promising? The Prof hasnt worked for years. Neither has Michelle. And if the federales could have touched Mama, they would have done it a century ago. How do I know youre not just trolling, trying to find out who else is with us? I already said Id do whatever you want done. I could be out there doing that, instead of sitting here listening to you talk about stuff I dont give a fuck about. And you know what my word is worth; youve cashed that IOU before.

Hes already in transit.

The Prof?

He glanced at his watch. Another two hours, hell be inside one of the finest facilities in the country. In a sealed-off wing. Same level of care theyd give the President if he caught a bullet.

I could feel the temperature in the room drop. Clarence wasnt angry anymorehe was merging with his weapon, controlling his body with his mind so he could take his shot between heartbeats. Waiting only for me to signal whether I preferred Pryce disabled or dead.

And thats the card youre holding? I said, my voice very measured, hands not moving. Youve got the Prof. And hes not in Walter Reed.

I dont work like that, Pryce said. And you know it. Im just explaining why you should sit and listen. Nothing you want is being held up.

He was telling the truth. Go, I said, putting both hands flat on the table.

Clarence stepped into the room. I shot him a look. Pryce intercepted it, said, Dont blame the young man. And dont think hes just told me something I didnt know.

My father

Is getting the best care there is, Pryce told Clarence. Not the way a salesman makes a pitch; the way a scientist states a fact. He wasnt being reassuring, just reading a chart.

Whatever Burke says he will do, I

Yes. I know.

Clarence looked at me, eyes glistening.

I ignored him. You going to get to it now? I said to Pryce.

Terry?

What about him?

Hes the one who needs my magic tricks.

I waited, thanking Satan that Michelle wasnt there that day. If she ever heard her childs name come out of this mans mouth, even Max couldnt have stopped her.

Terrys a piece of paper, Pryce said. A lot of pieces of paper, every single one of them a three-dollar bill. And theyre all stacked like dominos on an earthquake fault line. One little tremor and

Too late. Hes already in

College? I know. But that was an easy enough slide. He might even go all the way through grad school without a ripple. Of course, hed be the first person to have his tuition paid in cash. Cash over the table, that is, he said, nasty-chuckling at the idea that his last paymaster had gotten into Yale on his SAT scores.

Dealing with Pryce was like juggling spun-glass balls, each one filled with sulfuric acid. I knew he had a calling of his own. Whatever that was, it was strong enough to make him overcome his loathing for whoever paid him.

You think we cant put together a legit checking account? I said, tossing chum into the water.

Heres what you cant do, he said, showing his quads to my full house as he ticked off the poison-tipped arrows on his webbed fingers. You cant come up with an authentic marriage license for Michelle and the Mole. And even if you could, you could never create a birth certificate for any child born of that marriage. You cant

Whats real? I shot back. The morons you work for had as much chance of finding weapons of mass destruction in Iraq as I would of catching the Colombian drug lords who murdered O.J.s wife.

Terrys going to be famous, Burke, he said, utterly self-possessed. That young mans IQ is immeasurable. His science teacher is afraid of him. Theres no limit to what he could achieve. And you, you want to keep him out of anything that wouldnt survive a deep-background check? I can change all that. I can let him live in the light. Blazing light. I can make it all go away: where he came from, how he ended up where he is, all that.

DNA.

I can fix that, too, if I move now. But I see what you mean. Who knows how long any one of us is going to be around? Its easier if I paper it so he was adopted. At birth. His biological mother died during childbirth, father unknown. For at least a few more months, Ive got the key to the Records Room. Write your own story; I can turn it into non-fiction.

Maybe, I conceded. But why would you?

Why would you care?

Because I know you, Pryce. And I know there has to be a reason for you to be sweetening a deal I already took. Theres a piece missing, somewhere. And its not some green card, I said, glancing at Clarence.

He nodded a silent agreement, then said: Its not a piece thats missing; its a person.

So call out the

And get what? A profile? He dry-laughed. Im already dealing with cops whod Taser a drunk lying in a puddle of water, and I dont have time for them to grow a brain. This is tight. Most of the sands already out of the hourglass.

No national security pitch this time, huh?

Im a freelancer, he said tonelessly. Underground-speak for unattached. Pryce would take money from anywhere, but he wouldnt take orders from anyone.

I shook my head. Not refusing, showing I was confused.

Your old friend Morales died a hero, Pryce said, almost formally. Charged the Towers while they were still coming down. Hes not talkingnot that he ever would. But that plant of his didnt make you disappear, just moved you to the missing and presumed category. Theres no wants or warrants; youre not on parole. But your past is on paper. Which means your future

Im living on my residuals.

He put a disgusted expression on his reconstructed face, but his eyes never changed. If you shine a bright light into a bayou at night, you see a bunch of paired orange dots out there. Alligators have reflectors in the back of their eyes, so they can pick up even the tiniest flicker of movement. Part of their predators arsenal. Even if Pryce lost those webbed fingers, Id always recognize him. He came on like he was money-only, but I knew that was just a piece of the truth. A long time ago, Wolfe had shown me the other side of the two-headed coin Pryce was always flipping.

* * *

Theyre so lucky, Wolfe said, looking out at a tanker going up the Hudson.

People with jobs?

No. She laughed. People who get to be on the water all the time.

You like that stuff?

I love it, she said quietly. If I had my way, I think Id live on a boat.

Like a cruise ship?

No, a sailboat. A nice three-master that I could sail with a small crew.

You could sail it?

Sure. She grinned. I captained a ship from Bermuda all the way back to Cape Cod once.

By yourself?

There were other people on board, but I was in charge.

Whered you learn to do that?

I was a Sea Scout.

A what?

A Sea Scout. Like a Girl Scout, only we went out on boats instead of camping.

Id be scared to death, I told her. The water

You dont know how to swim?

No. I mean, I guess I wouldnt sinkwe used to dive off piers when I was a kid. But its so, I dont knowI mean, you dont know whats down there.

Theres worse things on land, she said.

I knew she was right, but it didnt comfort me. Once, when I was small, I went down to the river to see what I could hustle up. It was nightI always felt safer at night. A boat was there. Not a big one, some kind of sport-fishing rig. They had a shark up on a hoist. It was twitching wildly, like it was going to break loose. The men were laughing, drunk, celebrating their conquest. I looked out at the black water. I thought about more sharks being down there. Men hunt them for fun. I wondered if the sharks knew.

Sure, I said, getting back to it. This Pryce, is he one of them?

Those worse things? Ive run across his trail a few times over the years, but I only met him face-to-face once. He said he was with Justice, but when I tried a trace, it got lost in the maze they call cooperation. By the time I finally found someone whod talk to me, Pryce was gone again.

Thats the way he works. Tells people hes with the Company sometimes. Or DEA, ATF, you name it. And by the time anyone can actually check, hes moved on again.

Transferred, maybe?

Not a chance. I think hes sanctioned, but hes on permanent-disavowal status.

What the hell is that?

Pretty much what it sounds like, she said, combing both hands through her thick mane of dark hair as a river breeze came up. He does contract work, but never on the books.

Hard work?

I dont think so. Hes an information guy, not hands-on. What he is, I think, is kind of a super bounty hunter. A bounty spotter, if theres any such thing. I never heard of him making a collar, or doing any wet stuff. He only works the edges. But hes not just a tracker; he manipulates situations, makes things happen. Like I said, hes self-employed. So he doesnt have to play by anyones rules.

Could he get favors done?

From the feds? Im sure. At least he could from whatever agency hes bird-dogging for at the time.

And he doesnt play for headlines?

I remember one thing he said to me. I never take credit. Only cash. I think that about sums him up.

You had a beef with him?

Not at all. He was very polite, very respectful. Said he knew about a pedophile ring. A new twist: online molestation, in real time.

What!?

One of the pedo-skells would get the little girlthey only used girls in this onein his studio. Then hed set up the cameras, notify the others, and flash her image over their modems. They could tell him what they wanted him to do to the little girl, and they could all watch as he did it.

And Pryce knew this how, exactly?

He didnt say. But I got the impression that he had reached one of them. Had him in his pocket.

Was he trying to make a deal, have this one guy roll over on the rest in exchange for a walk-away?

No, it wasnt anything like that. He doesnt work for defense attorneys. As near as I could tell, he was willing to let the guy who tipped him go down with the rest.

So what was the problem?

Pryce wanted to get paid. He didnt want a favor; he wanted cash.

How much?

He never said. But he made it clear we were talking six figures.

And you wouldnt go for it?

I couldnt. We dont have a budget for anything like that, and neither does NYPD. Nobody ever posts a reward until theres a victim, right?

And nobody knew?

This was the first Id even heard of any such thing, and I wasnt even sure I believed him when he told me. I tried to put on some pressure. Told him if he didnt turn over the information, not only was that one little girl going to continue to be gangraped over the Internet, there had to be others, too.

And?

Didnt faze him. In fact, he said that should make his info worth more. I even tried threatening him with obstruction. He just stood up, gave me this weird smile, and disappeared. Nobody remembered seeing him leave; the security cams didnt pick up his image. I never saw him again.

So what they were doing to that girl, it justkept going?

Actually, no. A week later, there was a huge bust. Federal. The FBI vamped down on the whole operation, took it all in one fell swoop. A beautiful case; even the first freak to roll pulled serious time. And the Bureau got major press, from the Director on down.

You think Pryce sold it to the Gee?

Theres no way to know. I asked a friend over there how they got word, and he said all he knew was that it came from a CI.

Pryce, you dont think he was the confidential informant?

No. But he could have been running him, whoever he was. Or maybe there was no CI, just a bogus setup so they could get a search warrant. They knew what theyd find when they did. Thats the kind of thing Pryce gets paid for.

You got anything else on him?

No. But I know hes out there. If I hear anything, Ill call you.

* * *

You think Im trying to scare you, Burke? After all the extras I just put on the table?

No, I admitted. Pryce already had more than enough to bury me in the basement of some no-name prison if he ever wanted to go that way. Id hovered outside the grasp of the law for years, but I knew the truthmy freedom was nothing but a tethered kite. Anyway, youve already got the Prof.

Saving his life, not holding him as a hostage, he responded tranquilly.

I sat there. I kept my face blank, but my mind was in warp drive. Risk-gain. Threat assessment. And all of that meant nothing, because I knew Pryce was telling the truth. Once hed taken the Prof in his hands, hed given himself lots of choices. All the extras he put on the table had to be there for a reason, but whatever it was, it didnt matter.

Tell me what you want, I surrendered.

* * *

That finally tripped his on switch. You know who Prince Fazid el Kandal is? he asked.

No.

Hes a direct descendant of Abd al-Aziz.

No kidding?

A Saudi, he continued, unruffled. In 1902, Abd al-Aziz bin Abd al-Rahman al-Saud captured Riyadh, and spent the next three decades trying to conquer the Arabian Peninsula. One of his sons rules the country even today.

Awesome.

He ignored me. Saudi Arabia is governed by the Basic Law, which stipulates that the throne shall always remain in the hands of the kingdoms founder.

Ah. So this guys in line for

The Saudis dont grow anything, he cut me off. I was there to listen, not figure things outPryce had already done that for me. And they dont make anything. Most of their land is uninhabited. Their government makes North Korea look like the Berkeley city council. None of that matters to us. Tonga, Burma, ZimbabweDemocracy is whatever we say it is. And oil is what we need.

The Congo is lousy with untapped oil reserves. All of central Africa is, actually. But getting to it, thats another story. Even close to the coast, theres all kinds of interference: kidnappings, pipeline bombings, sabotage. Some of thats just banditry, extortion masquerading as revolution. But some of it seems to be your old pals at work.

You lost me, I said, knowing hed done the opposite.

Nigerias a military dictatorship, playing itself off as a democracy. Thats not a new script: the Brits colonize a country, and the minute they grant independence, it goes up in flames.

You remember? he said in his ice-cored voice, twisting his lips just enough to tell me that he had that in his files, too. The rebels were Igbos and Yorubas. The government was Hausa. Tribalism? Muslims versus Christians? Same difference. The breakaway group claimed some of the Niger Delta area for their own. They named it the Republic of Biafra before they were exterminated like termites in a Hollywood mansion. Nobody called it genocide, because

There was oil under that ground, and only niggers were standing on it, anyway.

Yes, he said, the way a teacher congratulates a slow student who finally solved the equation on the blackboard.

So whats with the history lesson? The Saudis dont have a rebel movement to deal with. Any group who even looks like trouble, they just pay them to attack somewhere else. Thats why they financed 9/11.

Thanks for the insight, Pryce said, drier than dead cactus. Try and pay attention, all right? We cant rely on the Saudis. If the pressure gets too strong, theyll fold. We dont need to develop new allies; we need to develop new sources for oil.

So Ill drive a Prius, okay? Can you wrap this the fuck up? I know Ive got work to do, and Id like to know what it is.

But Pryces river kept on rolling. In Africa, all the natives are good for is grunt work, like diamond mining. For large-scale oil extraction, you need geologists, drilling experts, rig constructors, pipeline designers, CAD-CAM experts. Understand? For that level of expertise, you need outsiders, and you need them to do more than just pay a visit, they have to live there.

Good luck with that one, I said. I dont care whos on the throne, warlords still rule the interior. You think that little sprinkling of blue helmets can keep anyone safe in the Congo? Theyve probably sold more weapons than they ever fired.

Pryce shrugged that off, as excitable as a mortician. Thats just a military problemclear-cutting could get it solved in a few weeks.

Then whats your problem? I asked him, still just a raft drifting down Pryces river.

What did you think all this cure for malaria press-release slop was really about? Unless theres a way to vaccinate against it, we cant get personnel to remain there for the length of time wed need. No amount of firepower will take out those damn mosquitoes. Malaria kills millions of Africans every year, but not half as many as it would if the indigenous people hadnt developed some genetic resistance over the centuries.

Thats why blacks get sickle-cell and other races dont. You want non-native experts to live there, you have to guarantee them more than protection from the warlords. Human-borne disease isnt a problem: we can fly in whores every week, certified clean. But those miserable little bugs

So the people who are putting up all that money are just?

Businessmen, Pryce finished my sentence. This is about money. Period, end of sentence. And they get a triple-return on their investment, too.

I looked a question at him.

He held up a hand. Went back to his trick of ticking off points on his webbed fingers. One, theres all that recognition as saviors of humanity: prizes, great press, tax breaksmaybe even a goodwill barrier against hackers. Two, theres the oil. Three, the drug companies get to experiment on humans.

I remembered that oneit was the Moles theory of where HIV had actually been developed: in Haitian prisons, when Papa Doc was in charge. No lab rats, no FDA, no

Exactly. You could test anything on those sorry bastards. Africans dont trust us. Why should they? Nigeria may be the richest country on the whole continent, but it has the highest rate of polio in the world. In South Africa, they think they can prevent AIDS with a good hot shower and lots of soap. Once we get deep enough into the Congo, all we have to do is pay off the warlords, and theyll round up the cattle for us to brand.

To do real research, you have to keep records.

So? Even the Nazis kept records.

That got some of them hung.

You really believe that was the reason? he said, shaking his head. Hitler knew what was coming, so he hid in his bunker until he could make his hands stop trembling long enough to take the easy way out. All that evidence was just a sales pitch, and Americans lapped it up with a spoon. I dont mean there wasnt hard evidencethose Holocaust deniers are nothing but Nazis in suits. But the government had to keep the publics eyes on the right spectacle. To this day, the average American doesnt even know there were Japanese war-crimes trials, too.

Think about that, just for a second, he continued, in a suddenly professorial tone. When his master dies, the true samurai performs ritual seppuku. What a crock. Those banzai pilots werent volunteers. And their masterthe Emperorwasnt dead. No, he was safe inside his palace as those kids took off in their balsawood bombs. They werent following some ancient code of honor; theyd been ordered to their deaths. And the man who gave those orders? Hirohito himself never even went on trial.

It was all symbolism. Pure Kabuki. If just following orders was no defense to war crimes, how come only a few dozen Nazis had to pay the bill for killing so many millions? And how come the ones with skills we could use got a pass, so they could come over here and help us build our weapons? You know, the ones wed need to deal with our allies down the road.

He tilted his head, inviting a challenge. Waited a beat, long enough to make sure I wasnt going to say anything. Then he leaned closer, letting a lower harmonic into his voice. This is supposed to be your city, Burke. Take a look around, why dont you? Got any idea how many foster kids end up taking part in experimental drug trials?

I shook my head no, but Pryce got the message: I didnt know the number, but whatever it was, it wouldnt surprise me.

Besides, Pryce said, his voice somewhere between bored and bitter, its not like the people living in that jungle have street addresses; you just tag-and-release. Their average life expectancy is about fifteen years anyway. This way, you could end up with the oil and a cure for cancer at the same time. Here, researchers cant even use stem cells. Over there, they can use humans. Its perfect.

Something lurked just beneath the way he said that last bit. Made me think about how he always made sure I could see his fingers. As though he was clinging to them aswhat?

But now wasnt the time to think that through; what I needed was to get him back on track, close the deal, and protect my father. So all I said was Okay. You tell me what you want; I do it, period. For that, I get the Prof and Terryand that other stuff you mentioned. Done?

He nodded.

What if I cant pull offwhatever you want?

You still get everything I promised. But you have to go at it with everything youve

This is a blood contract, I cut him off. Ill do it, or Ill die trying. I gave him a few seconds to scan me, opening myself up to whatever truth-detecting skills he thought he had. Deal?

He held out his webbed right hand. I grasped it. Tight, like it was the Profs only chance to live.

* * *

He opened with: A missing kid.

You want to me find?

Prince Fazid el Kandal wants you to find. Not you personallyhe doesnt know you exist, and he never will. He wants his son, Amir Aziz Ghazi, returned. And ourgovernment wants his wish granted.

Runaway? I asked. No idle question: runaways may end up on the Most Wanted lists, but most of them start out on the Unwanted one.

The boy is two years and seven months old, he said, cutting out my next hundred questions.

Snatched?

Four days ago. No ransom demand, despite the well-known fact that the father has unlimited assets.

So did Lindbergh.

Meaning what? Lindbergh never got his kid back.

Not alive, he didnt. But they executed a patsy to make it all come out even.

This isnt about covering up a crime, Pryce said, or finding someone to pin it on. If it was, wed hardly need you. Theres a wholedepartment in place for that sort of work, and theyre very good at it.

Why me, then? Youve got access to far more resources than I could ever

Because, whoever took the baby, we think hes one of yours.

I know you must mean something by that, but I dont like riddles. Just get to it, okay?

Not one of your people, he said, as all-in-a-days-work as a doctor signing a fake Medicaid claim. One ofthose you hate. The kind you used to hunt. One of your sworn enemies. By tribe, not name. Whoever took the child, hes somewhere in a world that nobody knows better than you do.

And you know this because?

We have a deal?

You want me to just keep saying that, or you want me to get to work?

* * *

We need you, Father. Please come back to us, Clarence whispered urgently, as if the presence of all the gleaming, pristine machinery had put the steel back in his voice.

He is trying, a white-uniformed nurse said. She was a slender woman with an achingly beautiful café-au-lait complexion, and midnight hair so lustrous it would make a raven jealous. The pain she saw every day had turned her exquisite dark eyes into occupied territory. Any other time, any other place, Clarence would have been siren-called.

But he didnt even look up. Father, he prayed. Very softly, holding the Profs hand.

* * *

We never left the Profs side, handling it in shifts. Except for Clarence, who always seemed to be there.

Michelle spoke, Max touched, the Mole hovered.

We expected Gateman to show. But when we saw Terry pushing his wheelchair, Michelle threw the Mole a look that would have made Godzilla flinch.

The Mole didnt even blink. Neither did the kid.

Mama came, too. Seeing her outside her restaurant was like running across a polar bear sunbathing in Tucson. The nurse looked at the soup she brought, opened her mouth to say something, scanned the black-ice eyes in Mamas ceramic face, and let it go.

Clarence finally passed out. The nurse, Taralyn, told us they knew it was going to happen, and they were ready for it. No shortage of special beds in this hospital.

I wasnt there as much as the others. I was working. Paying the hospital bill.

* * *

Under the Basic Law, all human actions are on a continuum: obligatory, meritorious, permissible, reprehensible, or forbidden.

Spare me, I told Pryce.

You think Sharia is

A fraud? No more than any other god-control crap. The rules are fine. But any fucking pervert can interpret them, like that God Hates Fags! tribe of degenerates in Kansas. And everyone knows rules dont apply to bosses, anyway.

Everybody? he half-scoffed.

Everybody whos not a serious candidate for a CAT scan, I said, slamming back his lob, but working extra hard on using a mild tone. Non-believers can still be fanatics, and evangelical atheists can be dangerous. You think the high-school football players who kneel in the locker room before a game dont know that the guys on the other side are doing the same thing? What, they think God has a point spread? The Sunnis and the Shiites who slaughter each other both swear theyre serving Allah. Enough, already.

Pryce didnt move.

It doesnt matter what oath you take, who you pray to or swear behind: the bosses are always the bosses, I said. Like that omertŕ handjob the movie boys love so muchyou ever met a don you couldnt turn?

Gotti

was dimed out by his personal hit man. Gotti was the top of the pyramid, so what did he have to trade? You know how it works: you have to rat up, not down. Hed reached jurors before; maybe he just liked the odds. Or maybe he already knew he had cancer, and wanted to take his rep along for the ride.

Besides, its not like he had a choice. Any soft-sentence deal prosecutors make, they have to sell it to the media first. Thats what counts. Thats all that counts. You think New Yorkers would have gone for the sweetheart package they put together for the Preppy Killer if the DAs Office hadnt talked the victims mother into holding press conferences supporting it?

So you think?

I made a chopping motion with my hand, telling him I was done talking. Id let myself slip, temporarily forgetting how information was plutonium in Pryces hands. Hed rather pick a brain like mine than the lock at Fort Knox.

This isnt about me, I said. How about we stop this debate-society routine and get to the part that is.

His blue-for-today eyes held my one good one for a long second. Then he moved his head in a barely perceptible nod, released a shallow breath, and then laid it out.

Prince Fazid el Kandals car was found at approximately 3:05 a.m., near an abandoned pier off the Hudson, south of Canal. He was slumped in the front seat, immobilized. The vehicle was his personal car: a bespoke Rolls, rebodied as a shooting brake. You know what that is?

Brit-speak for station wagon.

Close enough. This one had a lot of custom work, including a column shift, a fold-down padded panel between the front buckets, and a permanent slot for a baby seat, centered in the back. That seat was for his son. The Prince was in the habit of taking the child out in that car during the evening, just the two of them.

Not even a?

The windows were prescription glass; youd need an astigmatism to see inside, especially at night.

But he still got nailed?

This wasnt an assassination, Pryce said. In fact, whoevers responsible went to a lot of trouble not to go that way. Its easy enough to detonate any car if you have the right equipment. Or a tank, for that matter. But what this team wanted was inside the vehicle, so it had to be a surgical extraction, not a scorched-earth blast.

I waited, listening to a faint echo of admiration in his voice for whoever had put such a complex operation together.

The Prince had been chemically restrained; some sort of full-body paralytic. Whoever hit him with it knew exactly what they were doing.

You talking about how they hit him, or the dose?

What does that matter?

If you want to get a specific result with a drug, you need to know a lot more than chemistry.

Such as?

Weight, blood-alcohol level

Hes a Saudi. They dont drink.

And they never have diabetes? Or bum tickers? Epilepsy? See where Im going?

Pryce blinked his eyes. Once, like a camera shutter. According to the Prince, he was swarmed by a group of men who sprayed some kind of mist in his face. And before you ask, they were all masked, gloved, wearing generic clothing. They never spoke. The Prince was just waking up when a sector car spotted his vehicle.

Now, this is important: the Prince had not been reported missing. The cops were not responding to a BOLO of any kind, just drawn to the sight of such a car in such a place.

Actually, the Prince was lucky that night. When the uniforms opened his vehicle, he was still wearing all his jewelry. In that neighborhood, if the cops hadnt gotten there first, he would have been picked clean.

In that neighborhood, they would have harvested his fucking organs.

Pryce shrugged. I didnt waste any focus trying to interpret what that meant.

The baby was taken. That was all I got from him.

And you think someone took all those risks, spent all that moneyjust to get their hands on a kid?

No ransom demand, Pryce repeated. You tell me.

How could it not be some kind of political thing? I said. One babys the same as another to traffickers. Value varies, but the kid youre describing, hed be too old and too dark-skinned to be worth much.

Too old? He was only

Worth maybe one percent of a blond-and-blue, doll-faced white baby girl. The kind of money it would have cost to put together an operation like you described, it had to be that particular kid they wanted. So how could it be anything but political?

Watch was all he said, reaching for a thin black box on his desk. His eyes directed mine toward a flat-screen TV.

* * *

Car tricks are always scary. I put the age of the woman on the screen at anywhere from sixteen to thirtyimpossible to tell more because of the slightly out-of-focus image and hazy lighting. I figured the tape had been diffused to produce the copy Pryce was showing me, so I didnt put much stock in the voice being her own, either.

She looked like an upscale streetwalker: a lush packaging of illusion and delusion, from the plastic breasts to the expensive wig to her pass-a-polygraph belief that what she did was all about love. Half reclining in a stark white padded chair, she recited her lines: All G.K.s ladies stroll, but he wont let us do business outdoors. Hes got a deal with a very fine placeprivate parking around the back, no register, satin sheets, fresh flowerseverything.

G.K. says a john isnt buying sex; hes buying an experience. You dont buy us, you buy our time. Were actresses, not hookers. Thats why G.K.s the king of

Something out of camera range induced her to cut out the infomercial and get back to what she was being paid for this time: a quick round of Truth or Dare. And Dare wasnt an option.

Look, she said, haughtily, you want a quick blowjob while youre sitting behind the wheel of your hoopty, you drive on over to Skankville. G.K. says Im double-fine enough to work outcall, but we all live by his Three Commandments: no credit cards, no paper trails, and no partners. Some other girls use the Internet, but even thats a

Whoever cut her off the first time did it again.

Okay, she said, after a little pauselong enough for her complexion to get closer to the color of the chair. One time, a cop got me in his car. He told me I could either take a ride around the corner and do him for free, or take a ride downtown. My choice: front seat or back. I told him Id take the back, she said, pride swelling her fake chest. I carry a panic button, and I knew G.K. would have a lawyera real lawyerwaiting for me at arraignment.

Besides, G.K. says, you give it away to a cop even once, he keeps coming back for more. You call his bluff, he might bring you in, but most of the time its not a collar hes trolling for.

And G.K. was right. The cop went into this rap about working for Internal Affairs, just testing me, some line of bullshit like that. Whatever, I was done for the night. Thats another of G.K.s rules: any cop contact means your shift is over. And he knows Id never lie to him.

The interrogator, whoever he or she was, had the good sense or natural instinct to stay quiet. Let the whore keep rolling, even if that meant listening to her explain why she could have been a grand-an-hour outcall star.

So I was on my way to get a cab, she said, but when I saw that car, I knew it was something supernova. Maybe a pro baller, maybe an actor, maybe even an out-of-town player, trying to pull me. That happens all the time, she boasted, but my man knows he doesnt have to worry. Hes got my heart.

I remember thinking to myself, no way the Laws got a ride like that. I mean, it wasnt flash, it was justbetter, you know what Im saying? Way past anything I ever saw in my life. I know a Rolls when I see onewho doesnt?but to go custom on one? No way. Thats not bling; that is class.

That last word almost made her come. For real, for once.

The window slides down and I get over there quick, before one of those otherBut that wouldnt have mattered; it was me he wanted. Mink, he said, soon as I get close. So I knew hed been scouting me, using my name like that, she said, still excited about winning the pageant.

She tossed her store-bought dark-streaked mane of cornsilk hair, said, A thousand, cash. In my hand. Before he so much as touched me. I hadnt even gotten in the car! Anyway, we end up under the FDR. Dark, but not scary. Plenty of people close by there. Always is.

That front seat was big. Then he said I could have another thousand if I did exactly what he told me to do.

The man was way cool, how he put it. No bargaining, no games. If I didnt want the extra thou, I could leave right then. Just open the door and step out. With the money hed already given me.

She looked over at whoever was on the other side of the thick slab of matte-black material that formed some kind of table between them.

Naturally, I went for it. He gave me orders. Nothing special; nothing I hadnt heard before. He didnt hit me, or make me call him master or any of that scene, but he was very, very precise: get on all fours, unzip him, pull up my skirt.

When it was over, he saidGod, I swear I will never forget thishe said, You see? A whore will always do as she is told. You pay; she obeys. Whatever you want. Anytime you want. However you want. You want, the whore does. That is the world.

At first, I thought he was talking to himselfsome of them do that, especially afterwardsbut Icouldnt help myself, I guess. I looked where he was looking. Into the back seat. And thats when I saw it.

Silence.

A baby! Strapped into one of those little seats. I couldnt even tell if the kid understood a word, or what he might have seen, but it scared me worse than the time a trick made me suck off his gun. He put the barrel right in my mouth and made me slobber it good. When he cocked it, I

Maybe the interrogator made some gesture; I couldnt tell. But this time, it didnt slow the flow:

That psycho with the gun, he was doing himself at the same time, with his hand. He spermed all over the dash when I

Silence from the interrogator. Same result:

That timewith the gun, I meanI just kind of staggered out of the car, the hooker said. I remember throwing up. I remember pulling off my panties and throwing them away. Then I washed myself with every towelette I had on me. I couldnt stop shaking. I could smell myself.

But this, this was a million times worse. I cant explain it, butseeing that baby, thinking about it watching, I just

Silence.

Then the guy in the Rolls told me to get out. He didnt call me dirty names like some of them do when theyre done. He was very calm. But Ill never forget those words. I have no more use for you, hole.

He said hole, not whore. I could hear it. He made sure I heard it. I still hear it. He said, When you close the door behind you, it is as if I have flushed the toilet. And then he said: You see? He was talking to the baby.

By then, her hands were shaking too violently to pull a cigarette out of her pack. A hand reached into the frame, holding one out to her, already lit. A web-fingered hand.

The hooker took a long, deep drag. Closed her eyes. Said: Please dont make me talk about this anymore. You promised me, if I told you everything, youd take care of

Thats already been done, Pryces undisguised voice said.

* * *

Thats it? I asked him. Knowing it wasnt.

Three more. Cross-confirmed.

And you think this one is mine because?

Youre the pattern-master, he said. The feds have a billion bucks worth of computers, but theyre working with ten cents worth of data. Theyve got a lot of different names for what they do, but it all comes down to the same thing: Guessing for Dollars. Thats fine for proposal writing, but, in your world, its what suckers do with bookies. People come to you for only one reason: because you know.

I stopped fencing, asked: You have a chronology?

The one you saw was the third of the four. But we assume many others had preceded her.

Yeah, I agreed. Way too stylized. You think he was going to keep escalating?

Pryce shrugged; guessing wasnt his game, either.

But theres at least one you know about that you dont have on tape.

Why do you say that?

Because shes not talking, I said, not guessing. Was she paid off or?

The other.

Got a body?

He shook his head no.

But enough of a spoor so that you know it was him, right?

Yes, he agreed.

And any evidence that did exist, your guy has the scratch to have it erased.

Given the known data, such a scenario meets the criteria for both validity and reliability, he acknowledged. But on paper, it didnt happen.

This prince of yours, he knows about your data? I asked.

Pryce gave me a blank look. He wasnt confused; he was drawing a line.

Being me, I stepped over it. A working girls gone. One you dont have on tape, but youre sure your guy hadcontact with her, right? That means some pimp never got his merchandise back.

How do you know she wasnt just some?

How about we stop, okay? No way were talking about some underage runaway scooped off the street. You already said your guy was riding an escalator, and you dont find girls who turn edge-tricks down on the sidewalk. You want one of those, thats the penthousereservations-only territory.

Youre the expert; you tell me.

Okay. Those girls never work blind. They dont go out every night, or even every week. Takes time for the marks to heal. Surgical repairs take even longer. So every rental brings mammoth money, but theres a long turnaround time between them. A manager loses a girl like that, costs him a lot of cash, at both ends.

He looked a question at me.

Front-end investment. You have to set up contact points for clients to find you. Web sites are for dominas, not subsat least not the kind that can command major bucks for a single session. You need all kinds of screening mechanisms to protect your merchandise. Serious security. You need a way to wash the cash. Accountants. Lawyers. Offshore men. All that money is spent to make money. An investment, understand?

So, if a trick does go too far, its the perfect blackmail scenariois that what youre saying? Because his identity would already have been verified, and

Not this time, I said, catching the wisp of surprise that flickered over his face. In fact, your guy isnt blackmail material at all. Hes got money, all right, but its so fucking much money that threatening him could get you very dead.

He nodded at the back-alley logic: Anyone who did the kind of research you need to work a stable of edge-girls would know that some tricks are too high up to touch. That kind, they have a stable of their ownassassins with diplomatic immunity.

When I was sure he was with me, I asked: So why not spend some of that money in front, eliminate all the back-and-forth?

I dont under

Theres places in L.A. where you can rent a Bentley, but thats all about front. The rental places might call you sir they might ass-kiss like a doorman at a Beverly Hills hotelbut they know. Its in their eyes. Theyve got your number. If you were the real thing, why would you be renting?

You mean?

I shrugged. I dont know this missing girl. So I dont know who was running her. But I know their kind. And if the price was right

Are you saying?

Your records stuck in the same groove. You know as well as me that humans get sold all the time. Theyre just a commodity, like wheat, or pork bellies. What lawyers call fungible goods; one grain of wheats the same as another. But some humans are unique property.

Even for sex, theres a general market price, but it still varies, depending on the person and the packaging. A lap dance in a backstreet dive in Queens wont cost you anything close to the same thing in some upscale Manhattan joint.

Girls who turn lump tricks get used up quick. The harder and longer they get used, the less theyre worth. Baby-sellers know how quick the price drops for used goodsyou think pimps are any different?

Now it was his turn to shrug. I told you, this isnt about money. Or law enforcement. This is very, very simple: the client wants his baby returned to him. We want to satisfy the client. Thats the place where you come in. The only place.

I caught his meaning, and the warning it was wrapped in: If their precious prince had bought himself a human sacrifice, that wasnt their problem. And I better not make it mine.

Whats all this about patterns, then? I asked him. What do you need me for?

Without the baby, the client appears to have stopped hisnocturnal activities.

So?

So we dont believe weve come close to interviewing all the other women he may haveused. But we dont know any places to look for them that we havent tried.

You think maybe one of the pain-for-pay girls set him up?

How would we know? Pryce said, reasonably. We found some of them by going back down the money trail. But thats such a murky world that there must be others. And we were told there are women who dothis kind of thing for their own reasons. Not prostitutes, women who actually seek out such encounters.

Sure, I said, putting a who doesnt know that? look behind it.

As I said, that world presents a rare barrier for us. Money will provide access, but not to thedepth we require, especially in the time allotted.

I got it then.

* * *

The woman who opened the door for me was wearing a maids outfit. A costume, not a uniformshe wasnt dressed for housework.

Hi, Rejji, I said.

It is you, the fantasy-dressed brunette squealed. Those security camerasyou can never be sure.

Shut up, you stupid little bitch, a tall blonde whose severe black dress did nothing to de-emphasize her outrageous breasts snapped. She gave the maid a mild slap and pointed toward a corner of the living room. I was sure, or he never would have gotten past that simpering little concierge downstairs.

As the brunette stood in the corner, hands clasped obediently behind her back, the blonde smiled at me. You finally decide to come out of the closet yourself, Burke? Good timing. Rejji was due for a punishment tonight anyway.

When I do, youll be the first to know, Cyn, I told her, playing off her long-standing jokeif thats what it wasthat I was hiding my true nature from myself.

Youre so lucky, she hissed at the brunette, who shivered her bottom in mock terror.

Cyn

Yeah, I know. Business. Sit down over there and tell us what you want.

* * *

When I was done talking, Cyn said, I dont think youre looking for a risk-taker. She glanced over at Rejji, who was sitting next to her on the loveseat. They were holding hands.

Thats right, Rejji said. Its all about the lines.

I looked from one to the other, waiting for them to decide who should lay it out for me. On their Web site, Rejji spent a lot of time being disciplined by Cyn; thats what their customers paid for. Cyn owned Rejji. They lived in a world you could look in on, provided your debit card had enough for the ticket. But all that would let you see was a small slice of the globelike the tiny little tattoo on Rejjis right hip, or the dog collar she wore on special occasions. The rest of itthe never-for-sale partwas that they loved each other. I didnt know what they did when they were off camera; I didnt know where the acting started or stopped. But I knew the love was unscripted.

Our accounts had been squared years ago; I was there to put myself back in their debt. There was never a question in my mind that theyd tell me whatever they knew. And not because the pendulum is always swinging, and they might need me again someday. Thats the way it is in Pryces world, but even he knew he couldnt buy his way into this one.

You know how it works, Cyn began. We dont do stillsjust our video library and some real-time. Pre-pays only. The client sends in the scene he wants, and we play it for him. Weve got a lot of stuff stored. Usually, we can just click-click and theyre watching what they asked for. Sometimes, over a thousand of them at the same timelike an afternoon matinee. Subscribers get a discount, and we pay a lot of money for the encryption.

Theyre not all men, Rejji put in, and caught a look from Cyn. Well, theyre not, she said, pouting. One woman, she always asks for

Hes not here about that, Cyn said, more sharply than before. She turned to me, said, Everyone in our business has a line, okay? A client asks forwell, it doesnt matter, just something you dont want to do. So you say no. Sometimes, thats it. Sometimes, they offer you more money. After all, we do it for money, so, the way people like them think

I get it.

With me and Rejji, regulars know betteryou dont even ask. And for newbies, its right on our site: Just click the Dont Even Go There! banner and you get an Out of Bounds list. Ignore that even once, youre barred for life. But some stuff, well, its marginal, and we have to make a judgment call.

I made a like what? gesture.

Lots of clients want to see naughty-schoolgirl stuff. Thats okay, but if the dialogue goes wrong

I know! Rejji said. Like that foul

Shhh, Cyn said, patting the other girls thigh tenderly. He wanted Rejji to be a little schoolgirl, she explained. I mean, shes never going to look like some ten-year-old, not built the way she is, but this client wanted her to talk like one. And I wasnt supposed to be the headmistress of her school; I was supposed to be her nanny.

I know you didnt just let that one

If youve got more than a screen namelike say a credit cardits amazing what kind of information the feds can come up with, Cyn said, solemnly. Apparently, enough for a search warrant.

I bowed slightly, said: Beautiful. But I need to go darker than that one.

They exchanged looks.

Youre looking for a kid? Rejji finally asked. An actual kid?

Its not that simple, I told her. Yeah, Im looking. But not for pictures. Not for scenes. Not even for buyers. Im following a trail. Starts with a guy who works the strolls. Hes not the kind of wannabe dom you run across in your business; hes only interested in piece-of-meat merchandise.

Use and abuse? Cyn asked.

His use is abuse. But all weve got documented is verbal. He doesnt need to role-play; he is what he wants to be. He pays; the girl does what shes told. Every time he does his thing, hes making a point.

Not fooling himself? Cyn asked, making sure.

Not even close. This isnt the kind of guy who pays to spank a girl while she calls him her boss, or her master, or whatever gets him off. The one I want, hes right out front. With him, it wouldnt be Youre a bad girl, it would be I pay you cash; you bend over and take it. No scenes, just payment for services.

Thats asking a lot, Rejji said. Most pro subs like it at some level. I mean, they may not like the client, but they get off on the scenes themselves. Spanking, thats the comfort-zone end. But some of those girls, theyre pretty close to the other edgeRL.

I raised my eyebrows.

Real Life, she said. Even if theyre being pimped, their boyfriendsor their girlfriendshave to be into the scene themselves. One girl we know, she broke up with the guy she was living with because he wouldnt choke her. In her mind, that was supposed to be their special thing. Shed let a trick flog her for money, but asphyx sex, thats not for strangers. Youve got to trust to play that way.

Maybe. But anytime you let a stranger tie you up

Thats right, Rejji said. That game, its all risk. If youre going to trick, you never know. Not everyone follows the script. You remember Olivia?

Mistress Greta, Cyn added, as if that would clear things up for me.

I shook my head.

She did the whole Nazi thing, Rejji explained. You know: blond wig, black uniform, high leather boots, German accent. She stifled a yawn with a very ladylike patting of her lips. Had herself a complete dungeon setup, very expensive. Regular clientele, too. Like making an appointment for a facial.

And? I asked, ignoring her word games.

And shes dead. Somebodyprobably more than oneput her through hell before they finished her off.

You heard this?

We saw it, Cyn told me. On the Internet. Somebody posted the video, and made sure it got around. The URLs gone now, but we figure its been downloaded plenty of times. Not even illegal to possess it; they only showed her taking it, not the finale. That makes it art. Probably could have sent it in to apply for an NEA grant.

No strangers; no exceptions, Rejji said, schoolgirl-proud that shed memorized the material.

No contact. Cyn pulled the leash even tighter. We deal with strangers all the time, but never in the flesh. Rejji and I, we make little movies. We do it all: casting, directing, set design, lighting, sound. Now if you want to be the screenwriter and youve got the money to finance the production, well consider it. But, no matter what, you never, ever get to meet the actors.

Thats your rule. But its not the?

Of course not, Cyn said. Thereslevels in this business, same as any other. Standards, too.

You mean, like, security systems?

No, she said, crisply. I mean what I said: standards. Wait.

She walked out of the room. As soon as she was gone, Rejji leaned over and licked my mouth.

Cyn came back in, looked at Rejji, said, Your cheeks are red, bitch, causing a deeper blush. Ill help you with that later. Then she turned to me, said, Even the phone-sex operationsand, trust me, you wouldnt want to meet some of the girls they usehave guidelines. The classier ones, anyway. She handed me a piece of paper, neatly typed:

The following scenarios are STRICTLY FORBIDDEN:

Violence or use of weapons

Rape fantasy

Beast work

Incest

Red or brown showers

Amputation or mutilation

See what I mean? she said as I glanced over the list. That particular service is Gold Card or better. A girl gets caught breaking any of these rules, shes gone, no matter what kind of earner she is. And a supervisor spot-checks every call.

I get it.

We dont, she said, a faint aura of accusation in her voice. We know youre hunting. She turned to the still-blushing Rejji, said, What? You think Burke came over here to play with you, brat? She turned back to me. Whats your problem? You dont think you can trust us, why come at all?

You know better than that, I told her. Im just feeling my way through this. I didnt come to ask you for something; I came over to learn.

And did you?

I might have.

Which means?

If you know a girl who fits a certain profile, Id like to hear about it.

You said that funny, Cyn said, tilting her head. My fault: sometimes I forget that her IQ is as outrageous as her chest.

Hard-core sub, I got specific. Professional. No boundaries. The kind whod let a trick do anything to her, even with a kid in the room

Ugh! Rejji.

Shut up! from Cyn, who was listening intently.

and might have access to people who could put together a snatch of that same kid.

Like a mobbed-up boyfriend?

Heavier than that, I told them, measuring my words. Im talking about a girl with a client list that could include the kind of guy who could put together a military-type operation. A man willing to gamble big bucks, if he can play for much bigger ones.

So shed have to be in on it herself, Rejji said.

At first, Cyn said, but maybe not in on anything, anymore.

I nodded. You can recycle the script, but the ending never changes.

Same number? was all she asked.

* * *

Why didnt you just level with them? Michelle asked, later that night. Rejji and Cyn are

Leveling with them means telling them the truth. And I dont know the truth, girl.

You think that baby wasnt snatched because a professional sub wanted to make some money? my little sister said, her voice a blended sourmash of anger and disgust. Please!

I knew better than to say anything.

This rich freak pays whores, and has his kid watch the action, right? my sister said. Who knows why he does it, but we know why they do. So maybe one of them has a pimp, or maybe her trick books full of big-bucks clients. Either way, somebody smelled a big payday, and called in the troops. Whats so?

Girls with that level of client dont go dropping names, sis. They may know things, but they know what it costs to say things, too.

And you think, just because theyre into pain, you couldnt make them talk?

I ignored her sarcasm, said: Whoever put together that snatch team was top-drawer, with a lot of experience. Maybe armored cars, maybe banksI dont know. But it had to be the kind of man who would be very touchy about who hed work with.

Meaning?

Meaning you can forget about torturea pro wont deal with anyone into that. Nothing to do with morals; you just never work with guys whore bent, because they bend too easy themselves. Plus, were looking for a heister; no way blackmails his regular business.

Maybe surveillance is his business, mahn. That would mean he already has a team. And a team is what it would take to clamp a twenty-four/seven on an address, never mind a moving target.

SureI nodded at Clarenceunless that custom Rolls was GPSed. Pryce thinks hes looking in the right places, but he cant get in deep enough; thats why he came to me. For us, the key isnt the baby, its the ransom.

But theres been no

Thats just it, girl, I told Michelle. If anyone had contacted that scumbag, he would have forked over whatever they asked for. For him to go to the government, and for them to reach out for Pryce, this cant be anything money could fix.

Remember, no contacts been made. None. This sheikh had to be way past desperate to go to the feds, because now his hobbys not on the down-low anymore. That kind of info is unbelievable leverage; he has to want that baby bad to put his own head on the chopping block.

So the feds know theres a missing baby, and Cyn and Rejji dont? Michelle said, glaring at me.

Step back, okay? Sure, I told them that much. But in their minds Im working for the parents. Whats the point of telling them anything else?

You dont actually know. Not for sure. And that baby was

No, honey, I told her. This was no damn kidnapping. Unless you can show me how this whole thing adds up to moneymajor moneyI think this little prince of theirs is reading it right. Theres something else in play here.

* * *

The a cappella voice was as pure as pain, called up from a place that only a child who lost his father to a soulless assassin can know.

Dont need no silver spade

To dig my grave

Dont need nobody cryin

Im ready to pay for the sins I made

And I dont need no preachers lyin

Just put me down

In that cold, hard ground

And tell Mamma I died tryin

I knew the song; the Prof once told me hed learned it as a boy coming up in Louisiana. One of those sly spirituals that mocked the opiate the slavemasters were feeding their captives. That was when Prof was short for Prophet, not Professor. Depending on where you stood, he could still be either one.

Clarences voice was low, but it carried like an ICBM. He stood on the outdoor terrace, one floor below where the hospital was cradling his father. He was on his feet, both hands gripping the railing. Standing like the Prof did when he was preaching to his congregation, back when we were Inside:

The Lord dont want you on your knees, brothers. The bars only keep us in; they cant keep us down. We dont gotta be in their house; we can be in Gods houseif we make it so.

You know how it go: Twelve jurors, one judge, half a chance. We all here because we got convicted. So we all convicts by law. I say convicts! Convicts, not inmates! An inmate is an animal in a cage. A convict is a man of conviction! And a man stands up for his convictions, am I right? Now stand up with me, brothers. Stand up right now! Being a convict aint about color; its about being a man. So stand up together. Show those punks in the gun towers what men look like! Now give that an amen!

Id gone looking for Clarence; I knew he had to be somewhere close by. But when I found him, he was looking, too.

I vaporized; it hadnt been me Clarence had gone looking for.

* * *

I only do restraint. The woman was past full bloom, but still ripe, even with the Shirley Temple curls and raccoon eyeliner. And only here, in my own place.

But when youre restrained

It just looks like I am, she told me, very matter-of-factly.

I understand. But when you look like you are, the clients, they like to talk?

Some do, she said, as if stating the obvious. Some like to listen.

The talkers, some of them, they can get

What are you, anyway? she said, fitting a cigarette into an ivory holder. Cyn told me you were a real heavy.

So Im not supposed to have manners? Not supposed to show some respect?

Im not used to it, she said, warily.

Meaning you dont trust it? Or that you think Cyn made a mistake?

If a guy who I expect to pay me to put on a dog collar so he can walk me on a leash and make me say Im a filthy bitch cunt shows up with roses one day, that would spook me.

Im not that guy. Youve never seen me before; youll never see me again. And, so far, Im not paying you, either.

Cyn said you would.

Oh, now her words good, huh? She negotiate a price, too?

Sheshe said, if I had information, youd pay for it.

Thats what Ive been trying to find out, if you have that information. Thats why I asked you about guys who like to talk.

I dont get it.

You dont need to. Heres what Im looking for, okay? A regular. Ties you up, whatever. But this one, when hes finished, he always tells you youre nothing but a hole.

A?

Hole. Like in the ground. Thats the word Im looking for. That specific word.

She gave me a look I couldnt decipher. I did have a guy once who

Was he alone?

Alone? Who else would be there? I dont do sets.

Hed have a baby with him. A little baby. Maybe in a stroller.

And Id let him do me in front of a baby? What the fuck kind of woman do you think I am?

* * *

As I stepped across the threshold to the Profs room, I saw the nurse leaning over the armchair where Clarence had fallen asleep during his vigil. She shook the exhausted young man gently, said, He is here now.

My father Clarence was half dazed, half on fire.

Go look, she said, flashing teeth whiter than heat.

* * *

Son?

Its both Clarence and I said as one, the me that would have ended the sentence never reaching our lips.

How long? the Prof whispered.

Few weeks, I said.

I got called over to the other side, the old man said, more strength in each successive syllable, but I wouldnt take the ride.

They never built the joint that could hold you, Prof.

I remembersome of it. Caught a round. Went down. Thought I had my

His voice trailed off.

Clarence was slumped on the floor, shaking like a man with ague. His face was wet, but he didnt make a sound. Not out loud, anyway. It was up to me, then.

They never came, Prof, I said, talking out of the side of my mouth, like hed first taught me on the yard. Soon as they saw you holding your hammer, they ran like rabbits. By the time we got the rescue wagon over to you, the whole street was empty.

For true?

John Henry barred that door, I said, bending close to kiss his cheek.

* * *

Hes back to himself, Michelle was telling Clarence, much later. He lost a few pints of blood, honey. But not a single brain cell.

Thank you, he said. We didnt know who he was talking to. Didnt ask.

You know that gorgeous nurse, Taralyn? Michelle asked him.

The Island girl?

No, the space alien, she snapped. Couldnt you even bother to learn her name, you pig?

I was not

Im so sure. Well, anyway, Taralyn was there when I showed up a few hours ago. Just in time, I might add. The Prof was asking her howd she gotten to be a nurse, with that disease she got. Taralyn thought he was still brain-foggedI could see it on her facebut she got over that idea quick enough when that old rogue told her she needed to gain some weight if she wanted to haul the freight.

My father only meant

Oh, for Heras sake! Michelle exploded on the young man. You think I need a translator? Besides, he was talking about you.

Me? I do not

That old devil was telling her what you like. Bragging on you like you were a combination of Billy Dee and Denzel, only with Einsteins mind, Trumps money, andwell, he just went on.

Time I had me some grandbabies to play with, she growled, imitating the Profs tone to perfection. But my boy aint looking for no toy. He was justimpossible! Told her she had the hips for itcan you imagine?but, no matter what she had in her hope chest, she needed some more in her trunk.

I swear, Miss Taralyn couldnt make up her mind between slapping him and kissing him. That old man is bold, she says to me later. I told her, Wait til you get to know his son.

If you think a black man cant blush, one look at Clarence would fix that.

He does not yet know? he asked Michelle. Anything to get her off the scent.

About the leg? No, baby. Taralyn said she would tell him if we wanted. But she thought wed

Ill do

Clarence and I, again speaking as one. But we both knew that one was mine.

* * *

Im a star, the slim young woman with vaguely Oriental eyes and short, dark hair told me. Spanking videoswell, DVDs, reallyearn a ranking, just like in any entertainment industry.

I heard that, I lied. Thinking she wore her hair short so she could put on whatever wig the role required, keeping Rejjis words in mind:

She goes by Barbi. How yesterday can you get? Barbi Lacoste. Its a pun, get it? You know what makes her such a star? You can find a nice round butt anywhere. But shes got real pale skin, so the buyers dont just see her get spanked, they see the resultsmakes it more real. And some want serious bruising for their money.

This one, I heard she can work all day! You know what that means? Shed have to takeGod, I dont know, hours of it. And she doesnt need a whole lot of downtime, either, the way some do. I heard she gets a shot of novocaine in each cheek before

Youre so jealous, Cyn interrupted, laughing.

Of that trash? Rejji fired back. She turned away from Cyn, said: Look, Burke, I know her kind. Maybe she loves it, maybe not. But you pay her enough, she could learn to love something else.

So I didnt word-play with this Barbi. You know who I am?

I heard of you, thats all.

Then you know what I do. This isnt personal. I want something. If youve got it, Ill pay you for it. Either way, youll never see me again.

She lit another cigarette, fumbling a little with an intricate gold lighter.

I sat there radiating no-threat, misting it like soft fog over her fear.

I dont smoke muchexcept when Im a naughty girl sneaking a smoke. On camera, you know? But Iwant to think about this.

Im not coming back.

You already said that.

I did, but I dont think you were listening. So lets try it this way: if you want to get paid, its now or never.

Youre afraid Ill make a phone call, huh?

No, I said, just above a whisper. Youre afraid I will.

* * *

How did you find me? she asked, snubbing out her cigarette. Like you said, youre famous.

Yeah?

Yeah. Youre a for-real sub. When you get to pick your partner, you wouldnt even think about cash. But when you dont

Youre quick.

I can be.

Do I do anything for you?

Not yet, I said, fanning a sheaf of centuries.

You didnt answer my question.

Youre quick, too.

Sometimes, I think better after

This isnt about thinking, Barbi. Its about talking. Or not. You call it.

That got me a through-the-eyelashes look. When I didnt react, she said, What do you want? And how much is it worth?

A private client. The more little-girl you get, the better he likes it. Drops hints that what he wants is the real thing. Maybe even comes right out and says it.

A little girl? You mean, not playing: a real little girl?

Babies. Hed want to know if you knew someone who could connect him. Maybe hes a black-market adoption guy, maybe

Ive got a whole lot of them who want to spank naughty little girls. But its me they come to. Im the little girl. Im like an actress: you want a strict librarian, you want a brat, Ive got the outfits and the attitude. None of thats really about pain. You want to know what pain is, try getting yourself a Brazilian. So, yeah, Ive got the costumes. And the lollipops. But Little Lolita would be too old for the guy you want, right?

Right. Im not looking for a client of yoursI want someone you would have turned down. A buyer, not a renter. Maybe even someone looking for a regular supply.

She blew a smoke ring expertly. Waited a beat. Said: How about one who brings his own?

Baby? I asked casually, controlling my voice.

No. Shes maybe, I dont know, five, six years old, like that. I mean, shes his own kid, right? So if he wants her punished for doing something wrong

He pays you?

To spank the little snot, thats right, she said, daring me to say anything. Kink is kink. I dont judge.

Me, either, I lied, thinking how Rejji had nailed this one cold. And he does sound like he could be the right guy.

He pays real good.

Me, too.

He pays regular.

I get it. But hes not the man I want, just one who might give me a lead in the right direction. So youre not going to lose a client, see?

How high will you go? she said, flip-siding the question Id never ask her.

I dont bargain. You want me to name a price, then you either take it or you pass. Or you can pick the number, and I get to do the same.

I like it better when the mans in charge, she said, twisting her lips just in case I missed the point.

Five large. Cash. Here. In your hand. Now.

He pays

Im paying five large.

She sat there, pouting. I stood up.

Okay, she said.

* * *

She travels for this one, I told Clarence, signing the same to Max. Her client only gets his kid every other weekend. Visitation. Its in the divorce decree.

House or apartment? Clarence asked.

House. Nassau County, I told him.

One of those tacky developments?

No, girl, I answered Michelle. Hes got himself a serious piece of ground. An acre plus, easy.

Max made the sign for a dog snapping its jaws.

No, I answered.

Does he have any other protection, mahn?

The usual, I told Clarence. But all electronic, nothing live.

Burke, shes not going to see?

No, honey, I promised Michelle. The whore told me how it goes. How it always goes. She drives to his house after dark. They sit in the living room, sip some wine, discuss what the little girls done this time. The scene is like theyre married, and the whore handles the discipline in the family. Meantime, the little girls in her own room, way in the back. Waiting for him to call her.

Michelles eyes went arctic.

But this time, hes not going to call her, I went on. Itll take a while, but, sooner or later

The little girl comes outand finds the bodies.

I nodded.

I do not like that, Clarence said.

She will, Michelle told him. Trust me on that one, honey.

I swept the room, holding all their eyes, one by one. This was family business, and we dont do consensus crap. Why vote when theres only one candidate?

Theres not going to be a sound, I said. The little girl, at first, shell creep down the hall, sneak a look. Probably think they just fell asleep. Shell go back to her room; I cant see her trying to wake them up. But next morning, when her fathers supposed to be bringing her back

Thats when shell call the cops. Like her mother should have, Michelle snarled.

Mother? I said. Mom gets ten large a month. Child support. You think she doesnt know?

There are all kinds of whores, little sister, Clarence said, gravely. Michelle was turning tricks before hed been born, but she just nodded.

A pro hit, was all she said. A double, in fact. Whore the cops going to look at first?

Max made a dismissive gesture.

Thats right, I agreed. The wife wasnt in on it, probably has the kind of alibi too good to plan. But the life-insurance guys are going to take a hard look at her. And theyve got enough muscle to make even the Nassau County cops work for that insane money they get paid.

Max nodded.

I unzipped an airline bag. It was stuffed with cash. All Id told Pryce was that the spank-whore was endangering the ongoing investigation; he wasnt the kind of employer who asked for expense-account receipts.

* * *

Things just dont seem the same. Paul Butterfield, moaning his bluesboy anthem out of the sound system the Mole had wired for me. Born in Chicago. Before my time. Gone before mine, too.

The blues arent about color, theyre about truth. Fuck those self-proclaimed purists who insist only genuine black malespreferably Delta-born ex-cons dying of TBqualify. Probably the same twits who used to sport Honkies for Huey buttons and delude themselves how they were getting down with the brothers. Today, they keep it real with gangsta-rap CDs that scream nigger louder than the KKK.

Naturally, they make an exception for Eric Clapton, which double-proves how weak they are. Claptons fingers never danced like Mike Bloomfields, and his voice doesnt belong in the same juke as Charlie Musselwhitesbut they probably never heard of either one.

I tried the TV. Watched some sports journalists sit around and blather about team chemistry. Funny how they never say a word about the team chemist.

I remembered back when they blamed steroids for some pro wrestler killing his wife and young son, then hanging himself. Why all this focus on baseball? one of them demanded, righteously indignant. How come they dont do drug testing in pro wrestling?

The intellectual on the panel explained that drug testing wasnt a congressional priority because pro wrestling wasnt a sport, it was entertainment. Steroids were wrong, of course, but its not as if you needed a competitive edge in a staged event.

The others nodded at this trenchant analysis, proving doping is allowed in the broadcast industry. Sure, nobody cares about steroid use in pro wrestling, but that isnt because its not a real sportits because you cant bet on it. Who do you think cares more about an undetected competitive edgeprotectors of the purity of the game, or the gambling industry? Just look at how hard they slammed that pro-basketball ref who admitted taking money to fix games. Those lobbyists really earn their money.

I chewed a few burnt almonds to get the sickening taste out of my mouth, hit the mute, and opened the paper. Some wet-brain on the city council announced he was sponsoring legislation to ban pit bulls. Its not that he wasnt an animal-loverhe had a bichon frise, didnt he?its just that he felt a moral obligation to protect citizens from those genetically vicious creatures. Guess hed know about genetics, since his only qualification for public office was that his father had held the seat before him.

But the moron made me realize something: Id waited long enough.

* * *

I want to buy her.

I aint in that business, ese.

I know, I told the man who owned the two-pump gas station where I keep my Plymouth stashed, inside the same chain-link cage that protected trespassers from the pits who lived back there. Jester had built them a dog condo big enough for a family of six. Probably put in central air, too. But, come on, bro, you went out and got a mate for that dragon of yours. They got together, she had a litter, and you kept one of them. So you mustve done something with the others, yeah?

Never sold one, he said, as flexible as a suicide bomber. Jester was a businessman whose business you didnt want to know. Even if you missed the message of PELIGROS AUTOMOTIVE sloppily spray-painted over the never-opened garage slots, the OUT OF GAS sign permanently fixed to the pumps was clear enough.

I know that, I assured him. And I know they never went near a scratch-line, either. I was here when those punks tried to get you to put your big guy back into the same game you pulled him out of, remember?

He nodded. Crossed his arms. The python-tattooed biceps said he wasnt willing to concede he couldnt have handled all three of them by himself, but the nod granted that me slipping out from under the Plymouth and showing them I carried a snake of my owna four-inch Colt King Cobra .357had changed the odds.

Ive been coming here for years, right? You think Id ever?

No, no, ese. I know you dont even be thinking that. This on me, not you. When they was pups, I could find them homes with righteous folk, okay? But the little one, she been here too long. I call her Rosita, cause shes so pretty, but I never talk to her, you know? Not to her mother, either. That ones muy loco; a stone cocodrilo. You try and take her baby, she maybe take a piece of you, comprende?

Ive been teaching the little one to trust me, Jester. For a long time now. Ill risk it.

You sure, amigo? You know her father. Nova, he was a murder machine when I took him away from those maricóns who put him in the pits. Only got him a girlfriend because I thought it would calm him down a little. But the bitch I found, she turned out to be even meaner than him. Got those bruja eyes, you know? Any baby those two make, got to be hellfire in a fur coat.

Ill risk it, I said again. How much for?

Why you talk to me like that, hermano? Remember the first time you come around, ask me about storing your ride? I tell you, got to make some calls first?

I remember.

Took a while, do that. What you think I am?

I made a confused face, not knowing where he was going. Vacant lots dont scare me, but landmines do.

I mean, you know Im not no citizen, he explained.

Me, either, I stalled.

But you look like one, ese. Come on, you make me for, what, Mexican, maybe?

No.

He narrowed his eyes. Im some kind of spic, sí?

Okay, I get it. I looked him over carefully, said: But not Cubano, not Puerto Rican. No way youre D.R., either.

You pretty good, man. Got any more?

I can cross off Brazil.

That was an easy one. You dont know no Portuguese, huh?

Escudo.

Bueno! He chuckled. Jester was a good eight inches shorter than me. Maybe a hundred pounds heavier, with less fat on him than a runway model on the snort-a-line diet.

I know youve been locked up, I said, deliberately looking at the prison-issue tattoo that gave him the name I called him by. But not on this side of the border.

He shrugged.

And I dont see any MS-13 ink. Which means youre older than you look, because youve been across a long time.

Pablito said you was a detective.

Now it was my turn to give him a look. Not many could call Dr. Pablo Cintrone Pablito. You dont claim kinship with Una Gente Libre unless youre for realor dont like oxygen.

Back in the day, UGL didnt operate like most so-called underground groups. No letters to the newspapers, no phone calls to the media, no bombs in public places. They had been credit-blamed for a number of outright assassinations over the yearsa mixed bag of sweatshop owners, slum landlords, dope dealers, and some apparently honest citizensbut they never counted coup.

The word would go on the street that UGL wanted someoneand that someone would disappear. Dead or fledwithout a body, you could never be sure.

The Puerto Rican independistas had been quiet for years, working a different angle from decades ago, when they were all about urban warfare and the FALN was the most feared of all the guerrilla groups.

Pablo and I go back a long time, to years before he became el jefe of the UGL. When hed first introduced me to some of the fighters, hed been careful to call me amigo mio, not amigo nuestro. We dont exchange Christmas cards, but I was there the night his daughter was born, and I was there when one of his enemies had gone in the other direction.

His daughters grown now. But all the years havent widened the gap; if either of us reached, hed still be able to touch the other.

You the only gringo El Cańonero ever did a job for. Jester half-smiled, flashing his badge.

El Cańonero had been the second-most-feared sniper in the city. Never missed, never captured. Hes been out of action for years. Like the Prof always says, If theres a reason, theres a season. With UGL walking the slower road, switching from revolution to infiltration, El Cańonero was a hibernating bear. But spring always comes.

If Jester could even find Pablo, never mind get the UGL boss to vouch for me personally, his own roots went deep.

Guatemala? I guessed.

I got this when I was thirteen, he said, flexing so the jester tattoo popped. You know what it means?

Respect.

Sí. Only one way to get that. I was born strong, and I learned to take a beating real young. Nothing special about that, not where I come from. They had some very bad hombres in that joint, but none of them laughed at the car batteries those cock-suckers used.

Thats how I got my name. I think it made me crazy, the pain. I dont remember actually laughing, but thats what they said I was doing when the puercas threw me back into the cage, after they finished their fun.

In that cage, I had special respect. The old man who put this mark on me, hed been locked down all his life, never to leave. He was the one who taught me. When I learned enough, I hired out.

Your name can fly right over these walls, he told me. And it worked just like the old man said it would: One of the narco-reyes bought me a pardon. I was supposed to go work for him, pay off what it cost him.

Yeah, I know. A labor bond. They heard about how you handled enforcer work, so

You got it.

That old man, he named you right. The joke was on them, huh?

Three of them were there, all in white. They told me what I was supposed to do. Very simple. They bought me, so they owned me. They saw a big, stupid dog. Me, all I saw was three chicken necks. Snapped like dead twigs.

After that, I found the people the old man had told me about, and they got me across. Pablo, he was waiting, just like the old man promised.

You ever get enough cash together to spring him? I asked, knowing that would have been Jesters first move.

More than enough, he said. Took a few months, but then I made the call. Thats when I found out he was dead. They killed him the day after I made my move. The powder men marched right into the prison, took the old man out of his cell, and dragged him into the yard. They held him down on a block and sawed off his head. Slow, so everyone watching would see what it cost to fuck with them.

Evil fucking

That didnt buy them respect, bro; it cost them. The guy who told me about it said the old mans head kept rolling around the yard for a long time. Said his face was grinning like a cat in cream. Talk about the last laugh, huh?

Madre Dios!

Jester laughed out loud. You sad, Burke, he said, using my name for the first time. Pablito always said you speak Spanish like you dance.

I cant I said. Then I started laughing, too.

* * *

I used my key on the three-pound padlock, opened the chain-link, and stepped into their territory, a gallon thermos of Mamas beef-in-oyster-sauce in one hand.

The big stud strutted out, eyeballing me same as always. His world was like his little girls coat: black and white. Either he recognized me, or I was a dead man.

Nova was a special brand of warlord: he expected tribute, but trying to bribe him would be suicide.

I poured out the contents of the thermos on the marble slab Id installed over the concrete for just that purpose. Nova walked over, followed closely by his mateand that orca-spotted little female Id been courting so long.

While the others tore into Mamas cooking, she slipped behind me and deftly snatched the solid cube of filet she knew would be waiting, just for her. Thats my good little girl, I said.

Then I squatted down and patted her. A real one this time, not just a quick touch of her head, like Id been doing. I even scratched her behind one ear, just to make sure.

This time, she didnt trot away.

You want to come home with me?

She sat, eyes shifting from my face to her father and mother.

Its time, I told them.

The stud just watched. The mother looked at me. Into me.

Judge and jury, side-by-side. The only role still up for grabs was executioner.

I waited for the verdict.

Counted to fifteen in my head.

Then I started up the Plymouth. Let it reach operating temperature, the way I always do. Id been keeping the passenger-side door open while I warmed up the engine for months now, getting them all used to the sight.

Usually, they all went right back into their dog condo as soon as I started up. This time, none of them moved.

The temp gauge said the Roadrunners engine was ready. I took one more look. Nova was nowhere to be seen. But his killer-witch wife was still there, standing next to her last child.

I opened the passenger door, patted the seat, said, Come on, sweetheart.

The dog I knew I was finally ready for jumped in next to me. I reached across her, closed the door. Her mothers body was a statue, but her eyes crackled with death-threats.

I drove out slowly. Stopped. Went back, locked the gate behind me. And took my puppy home.

* * *

Shes a beauty, boss!

She sure is, Gate, I told the man in the wheelchair who slipped his hand back from under his guayabera shirt when he saw me come in the front door of the flophouse he managed from behind a thick wooden plank.

Yours?

I hope so, brother. You know what they say.

Time will tell, the shooter replied, confirming the only test a born convict recognizes.

* * *

If being carried up a few flights of filthy stairs bothered her, she didnt let on. I opened the door to my place, put her down, said, Its yours, if you want it, Rosie.

Thats when I realized Id named her.

* * *

Training a dog isnt any more complicated than immediately rewarding them anytime they do something you want them to learn. Every time they do it, you add praise and a command, so they make the connection. Eventually they dont need the treats anymore. But thats just the mechanics of training, not the heart.

Rosie was a young dog, not a puppy. Id never had a semi-grown one before, but I knew this much: if she was ever going to be really, truly mine, I had to be hers first.

She spent hours inspecting the place. I encouraged her verbally, but I didnt try teaching her anything. That night, I made her a bed out of thick blankets, right across from my cot.

When I opened my eyes the next morning, she was curled up next to me.

Some wino on a lower floor started screaming. Rosie jumped down and charged the front door, snarling, wagging her tail happily at the prospect of battle.

Defending her home.

* * *

When I had to, I used to be able to leave my Pansy alone for days; I rigged it so she could get food and water by herself. But Id raised Pansy from a pup, and she knew Id always come back, so I never worried about her getting all anxious while I was gone. Neos arent exactly Jack Russells, anyway.

For the next couple of days, I took Rosie everywhere I went, but I didnt want her to think thats how it was always going to be. So I started leaving her. The first time, it was only ten minutes. The second I walked back in, she started spinning in place with excitement, then rushed me so hard she almost took me down.

Gradually, I increased the time between returns. Ill always be back for you, Rosie, I told her, every single time.

Gateman was crazy about her, so I started leaving her with him, too.

Watch this, boss! he practically shouted when I came in late one night. Rosie had run over to me, and I was patting her and telling her what a perfect, beautiful girl she was, when Gateman yelled out: Rosie, sit!

And she did.

Yeah! Gateman cheered. Come and get it, girl!

She gave me a look, then trotted over and took whatever Gateman slipped her, swallowed it in one gulp.

I never had a dog, the wheelchair-bound shooter said. I know she aint minecatching a look from mebut Im part of her family, right?

True blood, I notarized. Then I glanced behind the counter, saw the trailer-hitch eye-bolt screwed into the floor, attached to a length of heavy chain.

Got to have it, boss, he explained. This little girl sees anybody coming through that door, she just goes. No yap-yap bullshit for her; shes a natural.

He didnt have to add killer.

I know it, Gate. But, look, that means, if any of our crew shows up and shes up there with me

I call up and warn you, bro. Shes gonna be one of us, but we go step by step, am I right?

I tapped fists with him. When I said, Home, Rosie charged up the stairs like a Great White who just heard a surfer convention was in town.

* * *

Rose is such a beautiful name, Michelle said, stroking my dogs triangular head. Why do you have to call her Rosie? Thats a washerwomans name. Not fit for a princess, is it? she asked the pit.

When you train a dog, you need a two-syllable name, I told Michelle. Its all about getting them to focus, lock in on whatever youre saying, pay attention.

Oh, for the love of

I know what Im doing, honey.

Yes, you are quite the expert when it comes to females.

Give it up, I told my sister. Youre not winning this one.

Men are like that, she said to my dog. Arent they, Rose?

* * *

Only a certified imbecile licenses a pit bull these days. Theyve got that born bad tag on them so deep that lawmakers all over are trying to make them illegal. Theyre even a banned breed in some countries, and the disease is spreading. Pits cant hire lobbyists, so nobodys running around screaming about their right to own one, even if they can be dangerous in the wrong hands. I mean, its not as if they were something sacredlike guns.

You know how those gangsta-boy punks train their dogs to fight? They feed them gunpowder. Ulcerates the lining of their stomachs until theyre in so much pain all the time that it turns them vicious. I guess that doesnt qualify as ironynot cute enough for the bloggers, and too nasty for the poets.

I couldnt wait for Michael Vick to find Jesus, snatch himself some forgiveness, and go back to pro football. I could watch every game, hoping hed get his spine snapped. Then they could just push his wheelchair into a swimming pool, and throw in a plugged-in space heater. Hey, if he cant breed, what good is he, right?

Still, I wasnt going to let Rosie walk around without tags and give some cop an excuse, so I did the good-citizen thing. The clerk didnt even blink when I put down Taurus Uniqua as her breed. I wrote Rose for her name.

You pay the money, you get a dog license, no questions asked. But if you want AKC credentials, you have to paper the provenance. Otherwise, you cant enter one of their oh-so-special shows.

The Nazis would have loved the spectacles those dog lovers put on: the winner is the one who comes closest to the physical-perfection template. Blue blood, blue ribbon, big bucks. Thats why some breeders cull their litters. Cant have below-standard pups running around; those defective genes could pollute the perfection pool. A German shepherd with a spotted coatnow, thats a sin against nature.

I had Rosie microchipped, too. Things happen. If she was running loose, a Good Samaritan might get her to a shelter. The phone would ring at Mamas, and one of us would go get her.

Plus, I didnt want some Animal Control idiot stopping Gatemans wheelchair for walking Rosie without tags. I consider it my civic duty to prevent violence.

* * *

They had to take the leg, Prof, I said. Straight out, the way I knew hed want it.

Kind of suspected so, the old man said. That skinny little nurse, Taralyn, I could see it in her eyes.

Prof

Whats wrong with you, Schoolboy? I didnt lose nothing Im gonna need. I look like fucking Bojangles to you?

You look like you always do, I told my father. Sound the same, too.

He looked around for a long few seconds. Said, This setup, its not no charity ward. Am I right?

Yeah.

Whatd you do, son? Sell your soul to the Devil?

Not my soul, I told my father.

Then I told him the rest.

* * *

The papers quoted the cops as saying they had a person of interest in the double homicide that had been dominating the headlines. The crime was perfect fodder for tabloid slop, with a little TV-cop talk sprinkled in. Both victims had been shot in the back of the headexecution-style, of courseso the Mansion Murders must have been the work of a professional.

The kids in temporary foster care, Terry said, looking up from his laptop screen.

That didnt take long.

Come on, Burke. My part shouldnt even count as an exploit, not with all the social engineering you did first.

It was good to know I still had the phone skillsscamming the names of a random group of CPS caseworkers had been easier than bribing a congressman.

Terrys first trickaccessing public records to get the vitals on each onehad hit pay dirt. They let them use anything they want for a password, he explained, shaking his head in disgust. They dont even require alpha-numerics, just has to be six characters or more. Pathetic. Most people, they just put in their own name or birthday. Hit it on the third try.

I patted the kidI was going to have to stop calling him that, even in my mindon the shoulder.

Nice work, T. Probably means the little girl told the cops what that woman they found next to her father was really there for. And you know the cops looked at the fathers computer. It was a crime scene, right? No warrant required. Maybe the whores prints were already in the system, too.

The medias gonna be all over this, so theres no way CPS gets to look the other waynot with people looking at them. Guaranteed theyll be asking that mother some questions.

Ive got some questions Id like to ask her.

Leave that to the insurance investigators, T. Those cold-blooded bastards will be looking for as much ammo as they can stockpile. See, heres a trifecta you can bet the farm on: the mother files a claim on the fathers big-bucks life insurance; the company denies it, and she sues.

She is just as guilty as

More, I said to Clarence, who had been standing quietly, watching the computer screen. But thats the kind of trafficking that they dont do TV specials about. I was thinking of Beryl, the little girl Id saved so many years ago. Thinking about what shed becomeeven psychopaths will tell you the truth if they want to.

And how very much Beryl had wanted to.

* * *

You didnt ping me to make a progress report, Pryce said. And you didnt need a meeting to get more money. So you must want something done.

A meeting. But not with you.

Who, then?

This prince of yours.

Look, Burke, this isnt a man you can just

Ill play by whatever rules you lay down. But if you want a win, Ive got to get in the game. People always know more than they think they know, only that never comes out unless you ask the right questions. If this guy really wants the baby as bad as he

What are you trying to say?

Trying? I already said it.

Pryce looked at me, no expression in his inky eyes. An apex predator isnt programmed for deep analysis. On this island, Pryce was a Komodo dragonevery living thing was his potential prey. He wasnt trying to read me; he was reading the menu.

Theres a lot of talk about you, he finally said. A man could get a headache, reading through all of the files.

Is that right?

Yes, he said, almost sorrowfully. The problem is, one piece of intel contradicts the other.

Thats because its not intelligence, its politics. Like a Supreme Court judge: He doesnt give a fuck about the law; he just knows what he wants. So he orders his clerks to go find enough bricks to build his opinion with. Like that partial birth abortion pile of crap they came up with.

You think everyones bent, dont you? Pryce said. Not being sarcastic, looking for that straight-from-the-source intel that hed spent his life collecting. And using.

No, I told him. Not just because it was the truth, but because I dont like pigeonholes any more than I like prison cells. And I dont think every man has his price, either. No pun intended.

But the law itself?

Bent? Its downright twisted, I cut him off. All the way from the root to the branches to the dirty blossoms with that foul smell. In this city, the lower-court judges are merit appointmentsmeaning the mayor gets to pick whoever he wants. The higher levels, you have to run for electionmeaning the party bosses get to pick whoever they want. Nothing to do with politics, right? Or money? Take it all the way to the top, it doesnt change. Ask George Bush how this Miers broad got herself qualified to be nominated for the Supreme Court.

Whats with the innocent act, all of a sudden? You actually think any of those judges dont have a personal position on abortion? Or capital punishment? Or gay rights? No matter what they say, they know their real job is to make the Constitution dance to the tune of whoever appointed them, okay?

Come on, tell me Im wrong. Tell me they dont come in with their own agendas, and twist their rulings to fit. What else are you selling today? Lobbyists got that rich by playing the horses? Congressmen made their fortune in the real-estate market? Jesus.

Pryce just did his thing: watched, and listened.

And, despite knowing I should have shut up minutes ago, I hammered on, hating myself for falling under his spell. Maybe youre even one of those mopes who thinks jury nullification is some kind of black protest thing? Better not ask the jury on the Emmett Till case. How come states rights was good enough when they had to justify segregation, but it went down the tubes when medical marijuana showed up? How come kids whove been abused get actual lawyers in some states, but others only give them a warm, caring amateur who has to kiss the judges ass if she wants to be allowed in the courtroom at all?

Just Us, Pryce said.

Spare me the Paris Hilton stories, pal. A guy like you, youll never get it. Sure, thats how cons spell justice, but thats not like saying youre innocent; its saying you didnt have enough coin to buy a walk-away. You rolled the dice and crapped out, thats all. You dont sit around and wait for things to be fair; you just learn to never fight fair.

He looked at me for what I guess he thought was a long time. Then he said: I mentioned intel for a reason, BurkeIm not the only one with access to it.

Meaning, this prince guy has got friends who can pull files?

And thats just what he will do, on anyone he meets with.

Including you? I asked, guessing that it was one of the no-budget-line government departments that had contacted Pryce, not the Prince himself.

That parts no problem, he said dismissively. Im on the books. Youre not.

So put me on them. Pick a name, make up a backgroundyou know, whatever they do for you, every time they send you out.

Youre not listening, he said. There is no Central Intelligence Agency. Pryce would knowhe spent his life sliding through government walls like cigarette smoke through a window screen. The Sheikh might have access to more than one source. Especially from the international desks.

So?

He leaned back, a boxer dropping his shoulder to launch a hook. Does the 4 Commando unit ring a bell with you?

Huh? I slipped the shot, throwing back the look of honest confusion Id been perfecting in police interrogations since I was a kid.

Mad Mike Hoares crew, he went on, unruffled. In Katanga, it was the 5 Commando. After that, he disappeared for a little while. Resurfaced in Biafra sometime in 67 or so. Rumor has it that it was his team who escorted Ojukwu out of the kill zone, once it became obvious that Nigeria was going to wipe out the rebels.

Never met him. The truth. Never even heard of him. A deliberately transparent lie.

You do understand that youre still listed as a war criminal by the Nigerians?

Whats a war criminal? I saida more polite form of I dont give a fuck.

Good question, he answered, surprising me. Everybody knows about the Geneva Convention. Because it was supposed to establish rules for armed combat between nations, it was assumed the combatants would be members of those nations. Of course, that never was the truth, but it wasnt until the late Seventies that anyone admitted it. Then the Convention was amendedcalled Protocols Additionalto cover hired guns.

Boiled down to the essentials, the Protocols say that mercenaries arent soldiers, theyre common criminals. If captured, theyre not entitled to POW status. They cant be repatriated to their home country, because their home country isnt at war with the country they were fighting in. Ask Simon Mann.

So, what they get is a trial, he said, parboiling the last word in a thick soup of sarcasm. If the court finds the combatant to be a mercenary, they can do whatever they want to him.

Even if?

A few years after Vietnam, some guerrillas in Angola were put on trial right after they were captured. About a dozen in all. Three British nationals were sentenced to death. One American, too.

Sentenced?

They were executed about two weeks later. Firing squad. The rest of them got the kind of prison sentences nobody expected them to survive.

Im guessing there was no U.S. Embassy there.

What if there was? America never signed that protocol. Why should we? America never uses mercs, it only sends military advisors. If a private citizen commits a crime in a foreign country, hes on his own.

Fuck you and your Protocols, Pryce. Isnt there one about not using child soldiers, too? For my money, we should tell the UN to find a new place to live, turn the whole building into condos.

I was just giving you some info I thought you might

What, use? This war criminal crap, its just another way of saying that a tourist visa to Nigeria would only buy me a one-way trip. Is that supposed to be news?

I thought you might be interested in knowing the Nigerian government has a long memory.

Which government would that be? The guys who won that last election?

Dont be deliberately stupid, Burke. The Prince is a Muslim. And Muslims rule most of Nigeria, no matter whos supposedly in charge. Sharia is the only law in the parts of the country they control, which is most of the land.

So?

So they have a list of every mercenary who served in the Biafran conflict.

I made a so what? gesture.

Thats right, he agreed. All they have is the name you were using at the time. No photographs, no fingerprints. But they do have access to an individual who says he can identify all hisformer comrades.

I bet they do. The mercs who fought there were a real mixed bag. Some were just nigger-killers, some thought they were fighting Communism. But most of them were strictly about the cash. Not just the salary, the finders-keepers booty. A diamonds not a rare stamp or a painting. It doesnt have a history that can be traced. Fits in your pocket, too.

So, yeah, Im sure they got one of them to point out anyone hed ever seen in-country: Peace Corps volunteers, before they had to flee. Red Cross workers, before one of their supply planes was shot down. Even the priests who never left Săo Tométhat was the staging area, wall-to-wall with mercs coming and going.

Is that where you flew in from?

Is this where Im supposed to tell you if your guess is right?

I dont guess, Pryce said. And Im not dumb enough to buy what I already own. Those Canadian pilots are incredible, arent they?

I thought the Count was Swedish, I said, acting as if he was talking about the mad-with-courage Quixote who built the Biafran Air Force out of spare parts, instead of the no-nerves pilots who flew ancient Connies over the war zone through the black night, diving down to a dirt runway lit only by flares, as casually as if they were dropping off a truckload of Budweiser behind a 7-Eleven.

You were lucky, he said, giving up.

I was stupid, I told him. A stupid kid who thought he was going to be a hero. But if you dont know what I was doing there, Id be real surprised. And if you think Id ever so much as set foot on that continent again, you should change therapists.

He gave me a look that could mean anything.

You think Katanga isnt still a butcher shop? I said, deliberately referencing where hed started this game. He was an opponent I couldnt KO, maybe, but I could take whatever he threw. For as many rounds as he wanted to go.

I understand, he said, calmly. But the Prince could still have sources we dont know about.

What he doesnt have is a photograph, I said, confidently. And even if he did, it wouldnt resemble what youre looking at now. Theres no risk.

What would I tell him? Pryce asked, throwing in the towel.

Why tell him anything? Im a man you hired. I dont need a name for that. He wouldnt expect me to give him one.

You dont want to give him anything else, either, Pryce warned.

You dont seriously think Im walking into some embassy, do you? I half-laughed. Heres how it goes. I pick the spot. I dont search him; he doesnt search me. He can bring anyone he wants, but the only DNA left behind at the scene is going to be his.

Hell never

This ones nonnegotiable, I told the shape-shifter. He doesnt like it, fuck him. At least youll find out how bad he really wants that baby back.

* * *

The Devil dont need to breed to sow his seed.

So having the baby

wasnt enough. You cant be born with what that scumbag was teaching his child. He loses the kid, he loses all the work he put into him.

So you think?

That the babys seen a whole lot more than Pryces people found out about? Sure! That wasnt no single meal the freak was feeding him, Schoolboy; it was that little childs diet, hear me?

Yeah, Prof, I said to the old man in the hospital bed. And I did. Thats why ethnic cleansers use rape as a weapon of war. Any baby born from those rapes will be doomed, rejected as impure by his own people, a living symbol of their enemys triumphif its allowed to live at all. What better place to leave your mark than inside your enemy?

Genocidal rapists always claim a holy reason for what they want to do.

Only one thing is true about Truth: when everybody claims to be telling it, some of them have to be lying.

Years ago, Id watched Wolfe throw a brick through that plate-glass window. A man and a womancitizens words, not minehad been convicted of slow-killing a little baby. At the trial, the Medical Examiner testified that the exact cause of death couldnt be determined. Too many possibilities: complications from the violent sodomy, food-deprivation, traumatic shockAll he could say for sure was that the death was a homicide.

Wolfe stood up at the sentencing hearing, wearing her trademark black-and-white colors, gray gunfighters eyes locked on the slab-faced political appointee who got to make the final call. I can still hear every word:

Your Honor, as you know, the law provides for Victim Impact Statements, so the victims loved ones have an opportunity to tell the Court how the offenders crime affected their own lives. All this Court needs to know about this case is that there isnt a single human being on this planet who could make such a statement.

The judge listened to the mothers lawyer claim she was a battered woman, totally under the control of her sadistic monster of a husband. He listened to the fathers lawyer say how the mother had taken her frustration at her husbands repeated affairsfor which he takes full responsibility, Your Honorout on the helpless child.

Then he maxed them both. Whether it was the truth of the torture chamber that had been the childs life, or the truth of Wolfes clear threat to answer the medias questions the wrong way, nobody knows.

The mother would be out by now, released while she was young enough to have a couple more babies and score a Welfare check to hand over to her new man.

The father had been on Rikers, waiting for his transfer Upstate, when someone slid a concrete-honed sliver of steel deep into his kidney, then snapped off the taped handle. When the guards couldnt wake him up the next morning, they rolled him onto a gurney.

Nobody claimed the body.

* * *

I didnt like working so close to the Moles junkyard, but it was the only place where we could have built the set in privacy before the opening curtain.

Identical black Mercedes sedans formed a circle around the aluminum Quonset hut like an army laying siege to a flimsy fort. A dozen men positioned themselves, weapons starkly outlined against the Hunts Point prairie twilight.

Two men entered the hut, immediately stepping to opposite sides in a gears-meshing move they must have practiced a thousand times. Each held a shoulder-strapped machine pistol in one hand and a portable spotlight in the other. One swept up, the other down.

All they saw was a dirt floor, a bare aluminum ceiling, and a man sitting on an old padded secretarys chair with a hollow orange crate to his right, topped with a blue glass ashtray. The mans face was covered with a black mesh mask, slit at the mouth. Pale-yellow glasses covered his eyes and distorted the shape of his face. A dull-gray sweatshirt hung loosely over his upper body.

They could also see the back of a brand-new black leather armchair, with its own orange crate and ashtray.

The man they saw was smoking. A red scar was visible on the back of his hand.

One of them said something in Arabic into a hand-held. About a minute later, the door opened again, and another man made an entrance. He lacked the centered balance of the first two, but moved with the confidant grace of an Invulnerable.

The hardest thing to disguise is the voice, the Mole had told me. It is fortunate that your teeth

It was a while before he said, There! Now concentrate on moving your lips as little as possible. Let your voice come through the new upper bridge. Do not speak from your stomach or your chest; use only your throat. Shallow breaths. Are you ready to practice?

When I nodded, he flipped some switches, adjusted the microphones, and watched his meters until he was satisfied.

The special man took the leather armchair, reached into a jacket that cost enough to buy a hundred human lives in his home country, removed a single dark-papered cigarette from a slim, dull-colored metal case, and fired it up with a lighter so small it looked as if flame had materialized in his hand. He took a connoisseurs sip of his smoke, leaned back, and regarded me silently.

When I grant an audience, I expect to see the face of the man who sits across from me, he said, after he realized I wasnt going to speak until he did.

If Id been one of those Chandler-clone private eyes, it would have been time for a wisecrack about burqas. But I dont walk the mean streets, I live below them. Im not an ex-cop with friends on the force; Im an ex-con who knows the cops for what they are. Im not a war hero; Im a man for hire. So I just said, This is what you agreed to with my boss.

When a man takes my money

This glossy, silk-wrapped thing was cruder than the stuff they pumped from the ground he owned, about as subtle as a Tijuana sausage show. Whoever was paying me, he could pay moregee, never heard that one before.

Im on salary, I told him, listening to the reedy voice of a man I wouldnt have recognized myself. I just do what Im told.

That he recognized. An almost effeminate gesture with the fingers of his right hand dismissed the two professionals who had cleared the path for him. They barely disturbed the air as they left, but I knew I had been photographed somehow.

I need to get the facts straight, I told him, no authority in my voice, just a man explaining his assignment.

I have already

This is my specialty, I interrupted. Some of those who dowhat was done in your case, have what we call a signature. A highly stylized way of doing things, as distinctive as a fingerprint. This is even more prevalent for teams. Everything you told my employers was recorded, of course. But that was an account, not an

I do not submit to interrogations, he said, in the tone of a man who was making it clear he was used to ordering them.

I was going to say interactive conversation, I told him.

I have a title, he reminded me.

I understand. I even understand what that means to the people I work for. I already told you what I do. No disrespect intended, but I cant do my work if I have to keep remembering titles; it breaks the rhythm, and I might miss something. Something important.

Then perhaps your employers can provide someone with a better sense of his place.

Im sure they could. Im sure they would do whatever you asked them to.

Including disclosing your identity. He smiled.

I lit a fresh cigarette, as if his devastating riposte had shaken my confidence. Thats up to them, I admitted.

I have come this far, you may as well go ahead and ask your questions, he said, satisfied that things were finally as they were meant to be.

* * *

You were parked overlooking the Hudson River?

Yes, he replied, annoyed at having to repeat the memorized lie so many times.

Approximately two-thirty in the morning?

Yes.

Your vehicle was a

Rolls-Royce. A 100EX drophead.

That model was supposed to be a concept car, not available to the public. But it wouldnt surprise me if this human pile of privilege had one of his own, sitting in a private garage. But youd never find the custom Rolls he used to train his baby there. It wouldnt be in any police crime lab, either.

Your son

The Prince.

was in the front seat with you?

Next to me. In his own seat. He is still too young to sit quietly by himself.

And the top was down?

Yes. The sun rises in the east, as Allah intended. We were facing west, because I was teaching him to anticipate its emergence.

No other cars pulled in? After you did, I mean.

None.

And then?

Then!? From nowhere they appeared. I was turned to my right, speaking to my son, when I sensed some kind of movement behind me. Suddenly there was a sharp pain somewhere heretouching the back of his neckand the next thing I remember, two police officers were talking to me.

By then, you were in a different car, in a different place?

Yes. That car was mine as well. Another Rolls, but with custom coachwork.

Do you have any idea how?

I ended up in the other car? The keys were in my pocket, and the other car was parked within eyeshot, in front of a shipbuilders facility. I had arranged all this the day before. The drophead has a panel to cover the area into which the top is lowered. The panel itself is teakwoodas on a yachtso it requires regular maintenance. I was planning to exchange the cars when the facility opened, and drive the one in which I was later found back to my residence.

So you think the kidnappers changed cars because the one you were originally in would be so visible?

The drophead is a sort of iridescent blue, while the other is plain black, very low-key. How else to explain such conduct? Obviously, these were no common thieves. My wristwatch alone would have brought

And by moving you all the way downtown to where they did, they bought themselves some time before youd be discovered.

I am certain that is also true.

So two teams I trailed off my voice, letting him hear my thoughts. One to take the baby away; another to transport your other car, with you in it.

It seems so, he said, not really interested. Id already shown myself stupid enough to buy his story, so how useful could I be?

Do you remember?

I have already

anything you havent been asked about, I went on, as if he hadnt spoken. Like, for example, a strange smell?

Asmell?

Whoever took you out had to be very close to do it. Thats what anesthesia is: it doesnt put you to sleep, it knocks you unconscious. No puncture mark was found, so they probably used a nerve block. And your nostrils and upper lip showed slight chloroform burns.

I never smelled any

Not chloroform; you would have already been out by then. I mean just before there was any physical contact. There had to be a gap there, if only for a split second. It would take a minimum of two men to do what I just described, and

Alcohol!

Alcohol as in?

Liquor, he said, nodding slowly to himself, as if absorbing a revelation. Liquor is forbidden among our people. I can instantly detect its presence, just as a non-smoker can discern if another person uses tobacco, even if they are not doing so at the time they meet.

Was it overpowering, or just a?

Not drunk, he said, thoughtfully. But it was a man who does drink. It wasnt his breath, it was his body. Do you follow what I am?

Yes, I encouraged him. Liquor remains in the liver for a long time. Thats why you see alcoholics dying from cirrhosis even years after they quit drinking.

Nobody asked me that question, the Prince said. He lit another smoke, slightly less ceremoniously this time. Do you have others?

* * *

Did anyone know your plans for the day your son was taken? Or for the night before?

Myplans? he said, as if the very concept was beyond comprehension. Nobody had ever taught him that haughtiness is a lousy disguise for anxiety. I had no plans. I told you, I only wanted my

Ah. Excuse my poor phrasing, I assured him, indicating I wasnt suspicious, just ignorant. I meant your schedule. A person of your position, there would be a secretary, perhaps more than one? A personal assistant? A chargé daffaires? And there are always security considerations as well, isnt that so?

In some situations, certainly, he said, choosing to respond only to my last question. But I have no need to travel about with bodyguards all the time.

Not unless you go back where you came from, I thought. But I wasnt going to let him divert the probe so easily: Still, the staff

I have no need of

With all respect, someone would have to keep track of your appointments, make reservations

If you mean at restaurants and the like, I require no reservations. My appearance is sufficient.

Real good at talking about what you dont need, arent you? I thought. But there are so many trivial matters.

He demonstrated his understanding of both royal privilege and triviality by not deigning to respond. Id seen that move, too.

Your clothes? I tried another tack.

My personal tailor sees to that. He comes to my residence whenever he is summoned.

Jewelry?

I do not go shopping, as you Americans seem so addicted to. That is womens work, shopping. When one of the designers I have deemed acceptable has something to show me, he will call and seek an audience.

Call who, you dumb fuck? I kept that one to myself, and switched angles. Doctors?

This is quite annoying, he reminded me. Apparently, you do not understand. Those who serve me always come to me. Doctors, lawyers, financial managers

My turn to remind him. Somebody knew where you were going to be that night. This was no random attack. They had to have some advance notice in order to get both of those teams in place.

Sometimes you have to tighten a soft interrogation, pressurize the situation. But you still have to color inside the lines, keep the subject thinking you believe his story as long as possible.

Nobody knew, he said, firmly. No problem believing that part: no way he told some secretary every time he went out to find another way to show his son that all women were holes.

That leaves only one possibility, I mused out loud.

Which is? he asked. He spoke casually, but his body posture was too rigid to carry it off.

Surveillance.

That cannot be done, he said, with a sureness I knew he couldnt possibly feel, even if his eyes werent already clouding with doubt.

I was inside before he realized thered been an opening. An operation such as you described is very expensive, I said. And very risky. Whoever pulled it off had only one objective: the baby. Your baby. That leaves only three possibilities. Ransom

There has been no request for money. If there had been, I would already

Then two more. Does the baby have an unusual blood type?

He is the direct linear descendant of

Not that kind of blood. A rare type that could make a certain transfusion work. Or a bone-marrow donation. Or even a transplant.

They would harvest my!

I dont know. I can only work with what we do know. Your baby was taken for a reason. If we can find the reason, we can find the baby. Thats why Im here.

He made a visible effort to calm himself. I would have helped him with his breathing if I didnt know that it wasnt the thought of someone chopping his baby up for parts that was making that vein throb in his temple; it was the personal affront. That baby was his property.

It took a long minute before he could calm himself enough to talk. But by then, he had recaptured the imperiousness of a ruler instructing a slow-witted servant:

The childs blood type is O-positive. He has been examined since birthbefore birthby the finest physicians in the world. Not a trace of unusualanything has ever been detected. He is an exceptionally intelligent child, very handsomeall have remarked upon this. But to even suggest he has some rare genetic trait is insane. All such information would have been presented to me long ago.

Yeah. And all you Nazis know what to do with defectives, dont you? I thought. I knew no member of the Royal House of Saud was going to have a Down-syndrome kid. Not for long, anyway.

A ransom demand could still come, I said out loud. But its been a while. Holding on to a baby is tricky business. For all the kidnappers know, the child could have a serious allergy. A medication he has to take. A special diet. Its a long list, and every hour increases the risk. Their risk. And theres one thing we know for sure.

He raised his royal eyebrows.

The baby must be kept alive. If they want to sell him back to you, they have to show the goods.

But no one has even

If they wanted him dead, why not do it right there? I countered. You, too, for that matter.

You said three, he said, wanting to get away from all these frightening speculations and return to where he was comfortable.

I did. Sodo you have any enemies? I asked, blindsiding a man who couldnt even see what was sitting across from him.

* * *

Minutes passed. The Prince smoked another cigarette, shifted in his chair, play-acting a man thinking through a complex problem.

I acted like a man wearing a toe-tag.

The Jews would never do this, he finally said.

Im not following

The Zionists. They are rabid dogs, a blight on Allahs earth. But they are clever, too; it is in their blood as deeply as their greed. They have many friends in this country, I know. But those are political friends, and such friends cannot be purchased for a lump sum, as one would buy a car. No, that sort of friendship must be fed, as a plant is watered. Otherwise His voice trailed off as he looked at me, making sure I understood the insights he was sharing. A nod was all I needed to turn the faucet on again.

The Jews murder Palestinian children in their beds, but American politicians can still take their money without fear of criticism. They will call anything the Israelis do self-defense, or an accident, or whatever they need to. No one will challenge them.

Yours is a bizarre country. Those Christian leaders who admitted that the destruction of your World Trade Center was proof of their own Gods anger at the moral degradation of America? They, too, hate the Jews. Yet they love Israel, he said, curling his lips.

I said nothing, just tilted my head to show I was listening.

The Jews are too sly to kidnap the child of a man whose only crime is to love and serve Allah. That would show this country their true nature, and your politicians could no longer support them in safety, he finished his sermon. Then leaned back, leaving his irrefutable logic on the table.

I nodded, still looking for a way in. I was asking about a personal

Your politicians may be reviled, but the average American is a believer of some sorthe does not understand the need for realism in life. Your former president, the one before that simpleminded tool, now he was a master at mixing politics and realism.

Clinton? He was a fool. If he hadnt

Meaningless, the Sheikh scoffed. Clinton did what any man of power would do. He understood that all the self-righteous hysteria would pass. As it did. You do not appreciate the finesse of a man who could pardon a Jewish thief like Marc Rich, while refusing to release a Zionist patriot like Jonathan Pollard.

I didnt say anything. Clinton had been slick at dispensing that special brand of compassionate largesse. Like when he commuted the sentence of Mel Reynolds, a Chicago pol who used an intern for sex.

Dont go for the cheap joke: Reynoldss intern wasnt a mistress or a wannabe wife, she was an underage girl. And then there was that solicitation to get her to pose for porn, too. While Reynolds was doing time on that charge, a federal indictment dropped on him, for all kinds of political corruption. That was the sentence Clinton cut, so Reynolds could serve the rest of his time in a halfway house. Working for Jesse Jackson.

You know what they call a Chicago politician who lives on his salary? Unfit for office.

The Sheikh took my blanked-out face for skepticism, and answered the question I hadnt been planning to ask. A man of higher intelligence is capable of recognizing the commitment of his enemies. Pollard was a Zionist fanatic, but his acts were in service to his filthy people, not for personal profit. That is the difference between a soldier and a mercenary. Both fight, but one for a cause, the other for cash.

A man clever enough to balance the interests of others is simultaneously serving his own. Clinton was a friend to our people, as was Bush. A wise man understands that different tools may be used for the same purpose, if employed skillfully.

Personal enemies, I repeated, kicking myself for having given him an excuse to continue his pompous little Realpolitik lecture. Another Machiavelli disciple who didnt know his idol had spent his last years on earth rotting in a dungeon. But I knew better than to derail an interrogation by arguing, so I stayed subdued and patient: Someone who hates you enough to want to do whatever would hurt you the deepest way possible. Not some petty grudge, a blood-and-bone hatred. And it would have to be someone with significant resources, too.

Another couple of minutes of silence. His thinking was transparent: in his mind, most of his subjects might fit the first criterion, but none could fit the second.

There is no one like that, he finally said.

* * *

Theres a clock on this one, and its ticking way down, Pryce said. He was seated across from me in my booth at Mamas, sipping house soup that might have cyanide as its secret ingredient, nervous as a wolverine watching a squirrel.

Clock? Well, Im ready to punch mine, I told him. Go home for the day, or call it a day, whichever you want.

Why did you go soextreme? he asked, ignoring my offers.

This sheikh of yours, the way his mind works, Im sitting there, disguised in the darkness, because Im someone he might see again one day.

You mean when that van he had stashed a few miles away returned to the place where you set up the meet

That van was a rolling lab. As soon as his little caravan passed by, it was going to move in. No way humans occupy space without leaving some kind of trace evidence. I wasnt even wearing gloves.

Wouldnt a simple fire have worked as well? That explosion sent the whole building into orbit.

A fire big enough to cleanse that Quonset hut would bring all kinds of attention.

And an explosion wouldnt?

Nope. Thats the badlands out there. Right on the frontier; a known trading post for contrabandistas, especially those who deal in weapons. Somebody test-firing product before they buy, thats just business-as-usual. Boom! So what? But arson, now, thats suspicious. Better the whole thing just disappears.

He took another sip of his soup.

Besides, I said, doing it the way we did sends your pal a message he needed to hear.

He shifted posture to ask the unspoken question.

I shifted mine, to say I wasnt going to answer.

You wanted him to know you expected him to return and vacuum the place for some clue to your identity, he finally said. And that you were the type of individual who doesnt take those chances?

I nodded, thinking of the scar decal now gone from my hand.

What if some of his people had been?

They wouldnt send anyone in right away; no way for them to know when Id vacate the premises, I explained. Anyway, they couldnt possibly get the van there in under ten minutes. The place was a hole in the ground thirty seconds after I left.

I didnt bother telling Pryce that a few dead prince-protectors would bother me about as much as canceling reruns of The Brady Bunch.

Sonothing?

He didnt tell any lies you didnt already know, I confirmed.

How about some truth? he asked, still politely sipping his soup. I was having some, too, only mine was in one of the BARNARD mugs Mama used for family. Pretty generous of her to buy us each one of those mugs, considering shed been slicing a piece off every score for babys college from the moment Maxs woman, Immaculata, had announced she was pregnant.

Flower came from inside Immaculatas body; Michelle had taken Terrys shivering little body into her arms and never let him go. That happened in the backseat of my car, as I was driving away from what Id left of the pus-sack whod been renting the kid out.

Came from, came tono difference. Theyre both ours. Our blood.

How you look at it doesnt matter to us. Citizens think a trial verdict depends on the evidence; we know all that counts is whos on the jury. Some of you get to visit our world, but none of you really sees it. Some of you try too hard, stick your nose in too deep. Then you dont get to leave.

He doesnt have a clue, I told Pryce. And not just because hes a forty-watt bulb who thinks hes a chandelier. But hes not lying when he says he wants the baby backwhoever has that kid could be a billionaire tomorrow.

And you still dont think it was a job?

A job? Sure. Contracted out, too. But that kind of work has rulesyou never work where you live.

Sonot Americans?

It doesnt matter where they were born. Im saying, if this was an orchestrated snatch, youre dealing with top-tier players. Internationalists. The kind of globalized organization that could make a hundred mil wire-transfer disappear in seconds, and turn the cash into precious metals before the commodities market closes that day.

High-stakes gamblers, then?

No, I said. He was grasping, without a straw in sight.

No? Think of the investment involved in a project like this. Surveillance isnt just manpower; its equipment. Expensive equipment. Some information cant be gathered; it has to be bought. Then theres the cost of transporting a baby out of the

Thats not gambling, I cut him off. If this was done by the kind of organization youre talking about, they wouldnt extend their risk by holding on to the kid. Which means they were hired guns, not working for themselves.

Weve reached out

And struck out, or you wouldnt have come near me. And Im telling you: there is no way this was a kidnap scheme.

Pryce nodded. It wasnt any of the contract organizations we know about.

And the reason you know that is because they know you, see? That means they know youve not only got the cash to pay them, youve also got ways to make them pay if they dont take it.

He nodded again.

There isnt a baby on this planet thats worth what this whole deal had to cost. The kind of freaks you think could have done itthe reason you came to talk to me in the first placetheres even less chance this was their work.

Because you asked around or?

I did ask around. But Im saying it because somebody wanted that particular kid. Only that kid. The baby-snatchers youre thinking of, theyre opportunity-players. Sure, their sensors are always out, and theyve got trip wires strung all around. A kid steps into the wrong spot, hes gone.

And, yeah, sometimes they work in pairs. Pairs, not teams. But telling a kid walking home from school that youve got a puppy in the back of your van isnt exactly professionalism. This was a coordinated operation, tightly planned. Different men, different specialties. Very specific orders. And lots of rehearsal time.

He opened his lizard-slit of a mouth. I held up my hand to stop him. Yeah, sometimes you get a freak who fixates, death-grips on his obsession. Maybe some child star, maybe some kid who got his picture in the papers. Doesnt matter how it happens, but the freak just knows theyre meant to be together.

Those kind, some of them stalk, some of them shoot, some of them snatch. And nothing is ever going to change their minds. Not restraining orders, not prison time, not fucking counseling. Once the wires get twisted in their heads that tight, the only way to untangle them is with a .45-caliber lobotomy.

But, remember, thats always about a relationship, okay? That holds true even if the relationship has to be with a corpse. Ask that smirking little slime they exported from Thailand after he convinced a pack of dimwits that he was on the scene when JonBenet Ramsey was killed. Now hes on permanent pervert interview status, guaranteed to perform his little Maybe I know something, but Im not telling act on camera at a moments notice. The only reason he cant get the book-and-movie deal hes been chasing is that hed have to actually prove it. The if I did it trick only works if everyone already believes you did.

Anyway, the relationship freaks never want an infant; they need a kid old enough to love them, okay?

The kind who do want babiesthats another tribe entirely. Disturbos whove been padding their stomachs for months, telling everyone theyre pregnant. Or baby-rapers who need fresh meat; peddlers who have a pre-sold market for the product

That last kind, they buy wholesale and sell retail. Some sell to the collector kiddie-porn filmmakers who never recycle their product, just the evidence of what was done to it. Some sell to yuppies who dont want to wait for an adoption agencyalthough the Estonians and the Chinese have just about killed that market.

I didnt know you liked puns, he said, telling me he knew that even a too-damaged-to-sell baby could have some perfectly useful organs. The Chinese rulers know the value of things: adults are good for slave labor, the used-up ones can be parted out, and the babies can be sold intact.

They know the price of remembering things, too. Like the Rape of Nanking. You cant sell product if you alienate your market, so they put their scientific geniuses to work and found a way to get tigers to breed in captivity. Now they sell the newly manufactured tigers. Not the animals themselves, the surgically dissected remains. Theres a huge demand for every single part of a tiger, from the teeth to the testicles.

In Japan.

The Chinese press releases say theyre breeding tigers as an anti-poaching measure. Buy that, chump. And why not? If they can hand out Olympic gold medals in Tiananmen Square, whats next? A Nobel Peace Prize for torture?

But you only talk about things like that when youre with your own kind. Pryce was a diamondback whod evolved enough to grow a silencer where the rattle should be. So all I said out loud was:

None of that was in play when that baby was taken. Whether you call it high-stakes gambling or risk-gain investing, it still doesnt add up, not the way I see it. Somebodys got their own in this.

Now you see why I came to you? Pryce said. I didnt think he was talking about Mamas soup.

* * *

Pryce wasnt handicapped by ego or imagehis idea of a profile was not to have one. Never uses a passport, just morphs his way across borders, takes what he needs, and atomizes. He might leave all kinds of carnage behind him, but hed never leave tracks.

An aikido master once told me that the ability to generate force, no matter how powerful, was a second-tier skill. Redirecting force, that was the ultimate. Creation always yields to control.

Max can feather-brush a nerve juncture and put you down, temporary or permanent. His targets vulnerabilities stand out for him like candle points in a crypt. Pryce was a grandmaster, too, only his discipline was information. He knew how to get it; he knew how to use it. He could make it reproduce, pay dividends, blow up networkswhatever he needed done.

Control.

Pryce frightened me, but he never used that fear on mehed seen for himself how I react when I get too scared.

And theres another reason why Pryce never played that card.

Wesley.

Hovering somewhere.

Maybe.

Frightening Wesley wasnt possible. The human-skinned demons who assembled him from spare parts of terror-traumatized babies left fear out of their creation. They ended up with a thing fueled by a chemical coldness not found in nature.

Motherfuckers got more blood on his hands than the Red Cross, the Prof had said about Wesley once. But not a drop of it in his veins. Dracula got his fangs into that boy, hed die of starvation.

Pryce never lied to himself. He knew no man can stop the rain. All you can do is seek shelter, wait it out, and hope your supplies last. Pryce was a lot of things, but he was no gambler. My hole card wasnt Wesley; it was Pryce not knowingnot for sure.

If hes really gone, youd never say, would you? hed asked me once, aura on 360 alert, every sensing mechanism open. Knowing I wouldnt answer; watching for a tell.

He never saw it. How could he? Pryce was an info-master, but I knew one piece of hard data his computer couldnt process: Ghosts are real. And some of them are close by.

When I talked to Wesley, he answered me.

Maybe I was just hearing things in my head. Maybe Wesley only lived there now. But just because you couldnt touch Wesley didnt mean he couldnt reach out and touch you.

Pryce could never really know. And that scared him.

* * *

So. All this work to set up the meet, it was for nothing? he asked, between sips of his soup.

I got what I came for.

Which was?

He doesnt know who took the baby. And hes not lying when he says it.

Because?

Because I know, I told Pryce. I could have told him how I knew, but you dont lend a gun to a man who might test-fire it into the back of your head.

It was as simple as this: The Sheikh had never developed liars skills. He had no reason to learn them, and no one to practice them on. Why lie when anything you say becomes the truth?

Spell it out, Pryce said, giving up.

Theres places I could look. A lot of exmilitary guys sell what they know. Or say they know, anywaymost of the jerkoffs who pay a fortune to take some combat skills course couldnt tell a Ranger from a Rambo. But whoever pulled this one off was a team that had been trained as a team. Mission-specific.

What he said to you about Pollard?

Yeah, the Israelis could have done it. Theyve got all the tools, and theyve had cells working this city since forever. But this one has a reverse signature on it.

Im not a cryptographer.

Missing pieces. You may not know who did the job, but you know who didnt, see?

See what? You havent shown me anything.

No? Tell me, does this sheikh of yours have the juice to change Saudi policy? I mean at some mega-level, like, I dont know, getting their king to condemn Iran for denying the Holocaust?

No. Pryces answer was so devoid of expression that I knew hed already asked the same questionin a lot of placesand always gotten the same answer.

Then the Israelis wouldnt spend any Mossad coin on him; hed be a lousy investment.

You said pieces. As in plural.

Sure. You tell me how whoever put this together picked the target?

Im not sure I

Why this prince? Aldo Morotype political kidnapping is always about prisoner swaps, and the Saudis dont take prisoners. Plus, we already know it cant be money. Your guy would pay, no question. But nobodys asked.

And you already said it couldnt be one of thosepsychosexually motivated individuals.

A fucking team of them? Not a chance. That second missing piece splits into two more. Two questions, that is. Who paid for this job? And why?

Whoever planned this had to know of the targetsproclivities, Pryce said, touching his no-fingerprint thumb to his plastic chin in a thinkers pose.

Right. And wherever they got that info from is the same place they got the money to do it, I told him.

He held his pose. When he figured Id had enough time to believe hed been pondering a decision, he said, Have you got places you could still look? Other places?

Sure, but

Money isnt the issue, Pryce stopped me. But time, that is. And we dont have much more of it.

* * *

It took me over twelve hours to find Lune. I wasnt going back to hisI dont have a name for it: village? compound? halfway house?ever again. His border control had too many checkpoints, and too many radioactive maniacs manning them.

When we were still kids, Wesley and me broke out of one of those jungle-law joints they built to warehouse write-offs like us. We took Lune along. He wouldnt have lasted an hour in there without us, and you never leave a partner behind.

Me and Wesley knew where we were going, and what wed have to do once we got there. Lune couldnt walk that road, so he went off on his own.

I didnt think he could survive the outside world. Lune had been institutionalized all his life, but not for crime. Once you got labeled incorrigible, you went into the same garbage can as criminals like us. They called it a training school. And I guess it was.

Somehow, Lune found his own world. That was a lifetime ago, but I knew hed still take my back. And what I needed was the one thing he did better than anyone on earth.

So I went to one of those electronics stores that clog the West Side with rebranded crap only a tourist would buy, paid a guy who looked like he was auditioning for a part in a hidden-camera documentary two grand in cash for an IBM laptop. He must have left his receipt pad the same place Id left my faith.

The Mole reconfigured the torn-out pay phone in the South Bronx as Clarence lounged against the metal pole, one hand inside his dull-khaki coat. The Islander had changed his outfit but not his nature. Clarence was known as a cobra with 9mm fangs, but that was playing him cheap. Cobras arent as quick, and their bites arent always fatal.

I plugged in the modem, booted up, hit a memorized URL, waited. Eventually, a box with a giant ? appeared in the center of my screen, with white space underneath. I typed in my question. Got back Parameters? and typed some more.

Wait, the screen read.

Ten minutes passed.

No, came up on the screen. More details?

I typed in: No. Thank you, brother, unplugged, and handed everything to the Mole. He got into Clarences beloved 67 Rover 2000TC, resplendent in its new coat of understated BRG, and they went off together. I got into my rusted-out Roadrunner, and went back to where I belonged.

* * *

Wesley once told me that he never took a contract that called for anything but the killing itself. The more time you spend with the body, the bigger the risk, the iceman said. Let them take out their own garbage.

The swampland around JFK used to be a no-tombstone cemetery, but its been mostly filled incovered over with strip joints and high-turnover motels. Once the feds caught wise that the entire airport was a mob paradise, things started to change. Throw Homeland Security into the mix, and that territory isnt used so much anymore.

The whole borough of Queens is a crime pendulum. The DAs Office there boasted the citys first Special Victims Bureau. But that was nothing but a political showcase for a hand-picked star. Theres no stats in celebrity journalism, so the pill got swallowed whole. When the head of that bureau decided to run for national office, all the coverage was about her 99-percent indictment rate. Not a word about trials.

Then Wolfe took over, and the axis shifted. The fondling that once got you probation and counseling suddenly got you felony time. A lot of defense lawyers whod been working that territory for years figured the new deal was a pose. After all, who actually tries those kinds of cases? Kids? Everyone knows theyre unreliable witnesses, what with implanted memories and all. Street whores? The mentally ill? Retardates? Women married to the alleged perpetrators? Come on!

But Wolfe opened her own graveyard, and kept it well stocked. While other sex crimes prosecutors were racking up perfect conviction rates by cherry-picking the slam-dunks, she was taking on all comerseven those bad victim cases that were routinely dealt awayor thrown awayin other offices.

The pendulum swung, and the freaks dropped Queens from the list of their favorite places to work. Sex-crime rates plunged.

Then a new DA took over, and immediately proved he was worthy of his appointment by obeying orders. His first move was to fire Wolfe.

That was like telling the vampires that Buffy just left town.

I prowled through war-zone streets where the only light was the occasional flare of a crack pipe, found the address I was looking for, and pulled the Roadrunner into the spot Id been promised would be waiting behind the boarded-up house.

The back door opened just as I rolled up. I stepped into a single large room, dimly lit, lined with benches and cots. A scrawny black woman in a cheap electric-blue dress gave me a dull look before she took her hit, slamming a spike full of short-term escape into a vein almost as collapsed as her hopes.

I took the stairs. Exchanged looks with the thug at the top. He stepped aside, and I entered Quayshons office.

* * *

I heard Bones was putting together a string. Talking a serious six figures each.

Meaning you passed? I said to the red-haired, blue-eyed, mahogany-colored man seated across from me.

Bones a hard man, bro. The way I figure, that number he quoted is righteous, but, me, I dont need that big a funeral.

I thought that one through. Bones was about a hundred years old. Born a bluesman. Got his name because he played the kind of joints where you had to bring it vicious just to get the audience to stop their knife fights long enough to listen. The man had done time in places that most people wouldnt even believe had existed in the twentieth century.

Bones had been free just long enough to figure out that they dont give Social Security checks to men who never paid taxes, so what would be an all-or-nothing bet for most people was a cant-lose proposition for him. Bones had been blues-shouting, I dont mind dying! all his life, and he was a man who lived his lyrics.

But here was Quayshon, saying the whole thing sounded crazy to him. And Quayshon was such an outrageous madman that he usually won the arguments he had with the voices in his head.

* * *

When I walked into his room, the Prof was watching one of those You are not the father! shows.

I sat down next to him. On the screen, some hideous mass of female flesh dressed sexily enough to induce projectile vomiting was pointing at a photo of a shaved-head, dull-eyed exemplar of inbreeding. The sub-simians picture was TV-positioned next to one of a round-headed baby, and the XX chromosome was screaming out the resemblances. The XYs riposte was that the kid didnt look like any of his other babies, so it couldnt be his.

My babys even got a tiny [bleep], just like his daddys, the mother shouted out her memorized line.

The hosta smarmy sleazeball who made Jerry Springer look like Charlie Roseput on a piously disapproving face.

The accused father grinned, proving that white supremacy would never make it as a toothpaste slogan.

Makes a man sick, Schoolboy, the Prof said.

What? I asked him. What I didnt ask was why he was watching the show in the first place.

Bitch hits you that low, you got to crack back, Jack! But that lame-ass just sits there grinning. Its like watching a lump taking a dump.

Its TV, Prof.

Boy, what you think Im talking about, going upside her head? You know I dont play that. But that punk makes me ashamed to be a man. Come on, now! Bitch says your cock aint man-size, you supposed to say: The tunnels wide enough, any train look small comin through it. I mean, this is tragic. Dont people know how to play the dozens anymore?

Not at your level, Prof.

Hey, I aint saying they got to be good; Im just saying they got to return fire, okay? Punks be throwing stones when they need to be growing some. You stand there and just take that kind of down, you know its just gonna keep comin around.

Amen.

Howd it get this bad, son? We down to where calling some motherfuckers motherfucker aint even insulting them?

Its always been there, I said. Just wasnt on TV before.

Lord Jesus. That baby they screamin about? Kids got as much chance in life as a cross at a Klan convention. The old man closed his eyes, as if to banish the images twisting in his head. When they snapped open, he was back. Ah, fuck all that, he said. What happened with that perfect score you heard about?

* * *

The Prof listened to my account, nodding slowly. When I finished, he said, Anytime you see a red-haired, blue-eyed nigger, you know you lookin at a born life-taker. That dont necessarily mean he got to be spongy under the skull, but Quayshon, hes the total package. That boy aint nowhere close to right. Probably been off the rails since his mama gave him that weird-ass name. Hear me? Quayshon tells you some scheme is insane, you listening to a man who knows.

I just nodded, the way you do when theres no reason to say anything.

Tell you something else about Quay. The man is one serious schnorrer. Crazy as he is, motherfucker would still rather pick up gonorrhea than a check.

Yeah, I agreed. From experience. Then I got back to business: It wasnt any White Night crew, Prof. They dont have that level of discipline, for one. And they may call the Arabs sand niggers, but they love anyone who thinks Jews need exterminatinga lot of them sent congrats on 9/11. This was way too professional. Some of the Valhalla boys may be ready to pick up the gun, but most of them just put up Web sites.

The Prof looked down the hall, using the periscope-style tube the Mole had made for him. Satisfied, he turned back to me, lowering his voice:

When I was a boy, they had some creatures down in Louisiana. You serious about finding you a mojo hand, thats where you got to go. Zombies walk those swamps, boy. But even they walk light around those witchy old women. They can work roots, kill you from the inside out, you fool enough to cross them.

Got some animals you wouldnt believe, too. About a million years old, but still playing the same tricks. You know why, son?

Because they still work?

You listen good, Schoolboy.

I still am.

He shifted position in the bed-chair they had just installed. You know what an alligator snapping turtle is?

I can guess.

Nah. You cant add words like numbers, boy. Alligator snapping turtle dont mean alligator plus snapping turtle. Im talking about a demon. Seen em this big, he said, gesturing with his hands held about three feet apart. Fucking dinosaurs, they are. Got tails with big spikes, heads like a chunk of rock with little red eyes. I saw one crack a broomstick in his jaws like it was a wooden match.

Now, listen: They aint fast. Cant hardly move on dry ground, and cant swim for shit, either. You know how they get their food?

I made a face to tell him I couldnt imagine.

The food comes to them, he said, twisting his lips to show his own teeth. They dive down way deep, bury themselves in that black mud so they look like part of it. Lie there all day with their mouths open. Inside those mouths, they got thesetongues, I guess they are. Anyway, theyre all pink and wiggly. Look like big fat worms, or maybe even little fish.

Those boys are gravely patient. Never make a move. Sooner or later, something down there sees what looks like a meal, goes for it, andsnap!

I closed my eyes, seeing it. Said, So, if I backtrack

Now you tuned in, Jim. You go looking for whoever snatched that baby, all you gonna do is spook anyone whos listening to the drums. You always going to be too late to catch that freight.

But if I put word out that I want the same kind of job done

Thats how you run, son! the old man said, extending his clenched fist for me to tap. Remember, now: we in the market for a fur coat, but it dont have to be no mink, you with me?

I want a particular baby taken, but not an Arab one. Ill pay what it costs, and there cant be any killingI just want the kid.

Not you, you. That pile aint your style, and anyone checking your pedigree gonna get in the wind. This is for a client, okay? You just the man putting it togetherfinding the man what he wants.

But that wouldnt fit, unless

Bring it, my father encouraged me. Like he had from the day he claimed that title.

I let myself become the beast. Kids being abused by his mothers new boyfriend, I said, forging the hook. Then I baited it with: Fathers got a ton of cash, but he spent too much of it on hookers, so Mom got custody. She picked a new guy right off the Sex Offender Registrythats the one thing that Megans Law bullshits good for, freakish broads who want to hook up with a degenerateand the fathers desperate enough to do anything to make it stop. So he asks around, hears about me.

The old man put his hands together as if praying. Opened them to form a V. Waited a beat, then snapped them shut.

* * *

Violence is total commitment. Middle ground is a myth. Equivocation is quicksand. Where I live, selling wolf tickets buys you a one-way ride. Could be now, could be next year, but every hand gets called.

I remembered the Prof talking to me on the yard, back when I was still a stupid kid: The biggest lie in the whole dictionary is foolproof, Schoolboy. Aint no such animal, cause a fool is guaranteed to act the fool. You got to survive before you thrive. Only sure way to win a gunfight is, dont show up for it.

And Wesleys mantra: Theyre easier when theyre sleeping, whispered to me one night in the dorm. Both of us were children then, but only one of us was a kid.

What kept me alive was that I was always smart enough to listen.

I still am. So I put out the bait, and waited for the line to quiver in my hand.

* * *

The whisper-stream is never calm below the surface. Sifting truth from its depths isnt an exact science, but you know its down there somewhere, buried among the lies, rumors, and myths. Id worked for years to keep my dead and gone label certified. It was Burkes brotherme, and my new facewho had been running the family business since Id slipped away.

The old Burke they all knew would have solved my made-up clients problem with a double-tap for the boyfriend and the mother. But that Burke had vanished years ago, when Id gone missing and presumed.

Id been born a suspect. I guess I died one, too.

The cop whod made that possible was still around, but hed never be questionedhe was part of the micro-glassed air that had once been the World Trade Center. Pryce always played it as if he knew the whole story, but he was really just working me: testing, probing, looking for a weak spot, as opportunistic as an infection. But I never gave him an opening. Pryce was like the malaria I still carriedit was in me forever, a permanent standoff: I couldnt make it leave, but it couldnt stop me from staying.

No matter how the people who live below the underground figured it, any version of the Burke they knew would never pass up the chance to make a pile of cash and take out a couple of baby-rapers at the same time. Some people were confused about my motivations, but nobody doubted my hate. If certain humans crossed my path, they were done. Pay me enough, and Id go out and cross theirs.

So the whisper-streams Help Wanted board got a new entry. Some might wonder why our crew would subcontract work we could do in-house, but most would just put it down to me not being willing to risk those of us still left.

The first-responders were what I expected: wannabes, with no track record, the kind who used to put ads in Soldier of Fortune. They always exposed themselves quicker than a subway flasher.

The next wave wanted the kind of info a pro wouldnt needor even want to know. Too many idiots are using cable broadband for serious business. Theres a reason they call that a shared pipe, and the FBI wasnt just monitoring the traffic, it was contributing some of its own. Sex slavery may be what got the trash-TV shows excited, but domestic terrorism rang the White House bell even louder than the one in their private chapel.

Next up, the usual dumbfucks demanding moral assurances. Meaning: make sure they didnt blow a book-and-movie deal. Rescuing a kidperfect. But abduction-for-dollarsnow, that isnt network material. Not even cable.

A few teams phrased their inquiries as double-edged as daggers. Very define the mission military, with just enough cred slipped in so I could find out if they were solidprovided I knew where to look.

Nice. Only none of them had any Stateside work on their résumés. Some countries sell citizenships like any other product, and they issue passports, too. Those deals always include no jobs on U.S. soil. They never spell it out, but its as clear as the image in a snipers scope. Foreign aid is Americas biggest weapon, and any country thatll sell you a passport will sell you even quicker, if Big Daddy says the word.

Nobody had used the snatch job on the Sheikhs baby as a prove-in credential. I hadnt expected to get that lucky, but I had been hoping for some vague references to having done similar work.

I got a few nibbles, but none close enough for me to snap the jaws.

* * *

This one is all wrong, I told Rosie. She was curled up on a nest shed made out of the rug Mama had sent over as a greeting gift for the new pup. Persian, she said, tossing it to me like it was a used rag.

The pits ears went flat against her skull. She hadnt learned to speak my language completely yet, but I knew hers. I walked over, patted her, told her she was a perfect little beauty, and scratched behind her left ear.

She watched as I positioned the circle of mirror-polished stainless steel with a red dot painted in its precise center.

I sat lotus across from the transporter, got my breathing right, and fell into the red dot.

* * *

Pryce is lying, or hes being lied to, I told Max and Clarence much later that night. Like always, I was speaking aloud and signing, too. Max reads lips perfectly, especially mine, but I always used the silent language wed taught each other anyway, so the others could learn it from me.

No way the team that pulled off that snatch was doing it cold, I said. Thats the kind of thing you rehearse, over and over, until you can do it blindfolded. Like dry runs for a getaway man, or field-stripping a rifle in the dark.

Max made a saluting gesture.

Yeah. Theres military in this somewhere, past or present. And this was no snap decision; they had the mission way in advance.

And the equipment, Clarence said. Scopes, micsmaybe even a tap. Also vehicles, a stash house

Uh-huh. And the manpower, too. This operation was running around the clock long before they made their move. That means they had people on the street, people who could blend right in.

This is not a city of just one color, mahn.

Max nodded agreement, spreading his arms wide for emphasis.

I sat quietly for a few seconds. One theory fits, but its got a real flaw in ita deep crack in the foundation.

Both men looked at me, waiting.

It smells like G-men, I said. Hell, it reeks of them. But if the FBI was running the show, why bring Pryce in on it? Hes too dangerous to play those kinds of games with.

Max tapped his heart, tilting his head to mean he was asking, not telling.

Pryce? Hes got some kind of access, thats right, I said, remembering how quickly he was able to put a team in place outside Federal Plaza, remembering how only one of the RAHOWA boys survivedthe one that turned canary on the spot. High-speed interrogation is easy when you can show one captive the price of a wrong answer by killing another one.

That had closed the books on our deal. Herk got to walk away. All the way into another life. But it wasnt as simple as a man keeping his word. Pryce takes government money, sure, I told them. But no way he takes orders. If the government hired him, the government wants the kid back. Why? That I dont know. The only thing Im sure of is this: the G-men might pay him, but they cant play him.

Outlaw agents, then? High-rankers who know they will not survive for long after the new boss takes over?

I considered Clarences hypothesis. Cant rule it out, I said, after a minute. You could be right. But theres an even better candidate. The Agencys been in a turf war over this whole Stateside terrorism thing. They didnt win any points for getting suckered on the intel about Iraq, and they keep pointing fingers at the FBI over 9/11.

CIA, youre saying, mahn?

Why not? What if they pull the snatch themselves, and keep it to themselves? They dont even trust each other, so whoevers paying Pryce wouldnt have to be in on it. And if they end up making the Sheikh twist in the wind before they rescue his kid, maybe that convinces the White House to extend their territory to inside our borders. Thats what theyve always wanted. When Hoover was alive, no chance. Now

But that would be

What, illegal? I half-snorted. Its not like any of them gives a rats ass what the law says. Or Congress, for that matter. You think politicians who take habeas corpus out of the Constitution would draw the line at letting the CIA work local? If the Agency even bothered to tell them, that is.

So we have no chance, then, mahn?

Not if thats whats going on, no. But that would mean someone sent Pryce on a wild-goose chase, and thats the part I dont buytheyd be trying to douse a fire with gasoline. If Im wrong, were fucked anyway. But lets say Im not. Then theres another path we could still take.

Neither of them moved, so I answered their unasked question, signing to Max as I did: We just ask Pryce.

* * *

Waiting for him to call me with a time and place, I patted the couch for Rosie to take a nap with me.

I dont know if she dreamed. I know I did. I call it a dream, but it was just a memory, replayed so vividly that I was transported back to a lifetime ago.

* * *

The old man next to me on the bench was too clean to be a bum. He was dressed like a dockworker who knew hed never be picked at the shape-up, but still doggedly showed every morning.

Big, heavy-boned, with thick, gray-streaked brown hair. His eyes were the color of soot; hands callused on the palms, scarred on the backs.

When clowns say anarchy, they mean a riot, he was telling me. You know, like a state of anarchy? But anarchy isnt a condition, its a philosophy. Anarchists dont want a lawless state; they want a state governed by the natural order of humanity. Breaking down the government isnt enough. In fact, its a mistake, because fear is all it takes for fascism to emerge. People want order restored so desperately, they dont think about what thats going to cost them later. Or whos financing it.

I thought anarchists threw bombs, I said.

Some people hang a black man from a tree, then go right to church.

So its all a lie? I asked, ready to believe that.

Nothings all a lie. The old man drew in a deep breath, expanding his chest like he was going to shout, but he never raised his voice. Anarchism is anti-authority, not pro-violence. Anarchism is the enemy of exploitation, in any form. Its not about blowing things up for the sake of destruction; its about razing a foul structure, so you can build a better one. Collectively.

That sounds like

The old man knew the joint Id just been released from had no shortage of explain-it-all philosophers, and he sensed which one Id been about to quote. Anarchism is not Marxism, young man. The dictatorship of the proletariat is still a dictatorship. We broke with that crowd a long time ago.

I knew the old man was IWW. Maybe one of the last. I knew they were stand-up guys. Even high-status cons talked about them with respect. That was about all I knew, but more than enough to make me listen.

No government doesnt mean no law, he said. While you were locked up, you ever read any Proudhon?

Never heard of him.

I figured, he said. Not surprised, resigned. But I know you heard the story about the guy who wouldnt let the government pick the time for him to die. The guy who made a bomb out of match heads packed into a hollow leg of his bunk, lay down next to the radiator, and blew himself up right on Death Row, just a few hours before they were going to execute him?

Sure! Cons treasure that story the way career soldiers do Medal of Honor winners.

But you think its a folk legend, am I right? You know, like how the guy they gunned down in Chicago wasnt really Dillinger?

I

Its no bullshit, son, he said. Not persuading, just laying it out for me. Louis Lingg was the mans name. And he wasnt some crazy anarchist, he was one of us.

Us?

A syndicalist, he said, proudly. The government always tried to make us out to be all the same, but the Wobblies werent fighting to take over the country; we were fighting for social justice. Years before the unions rotted from the top down, we were out there, organizing the workers.

Yeah, some of us used dynamite instead of pamphletslike the McNamara brothers when they blew up the L.A. Times Building. But those men werent after anything but justice. They believed. And if that whore Darrow hadnt sold them out

Clarence Darrow?

You heard me, he said, still not raising his voice. The newspapers were all killing us. Look how they lied about Haymarket Squaremaybe thats why our biggest force is still in Chicago.

But how they really nailed us was to make out like we were against the war. World War I, Im talking about. They said we were anti-American, agents of the enemy. Sedition! Treason! Vigilante mobs attacked us everywhereand the cops helped them do it.

I offered my pack of cigarettes to the old man. He took one, lit up. So did I.

He exhaled like a sigh of relief. Centralia, Washington. November 11, 1919. Thats when they lynched Wesley Everest. They had him locked up for organizing, which they called spreading sedition. Now, Wesley wasnt some theoretician; he was a combat veteran. So when they came for him, he didnt go quiet. There was a big shoot-out, but they finally wounded him bad enough so they could drag him to jail.

Then the guards handed him over to a lynch mob. Those dirty cowards castrated Wesley before they strung him up, then they used his body for target practice. People cheering, taking pictures. Real patriots, they were. The coroner wrote it up as a suicide. Where were the reporters then, huh?

I never

thought that happened to white men, right? Yeah, well, it did. But even that couldnt stop us. It was the damn Commies who got that job done.

But I thought

Emma Goldmanyou ever heard of her? He didnt even wait for me to confirm what he suspected, just rolled on as if Id admitted I hadnt. She supported the Bolsheviks. But the minute they took over, they kicked her out of Russia, so she came over here. Even did time on Welfare Island for campaigning against the First World War.

Thats when it started to all go wrong for us. See, the IWW led the world in anti-fascism. Wesley Everest, he served in that war, because it was the right thing to do. We were the first to fight for equal pay for equal work; thats not the same as goddamn Communism, and it never was. So we blazed that trail, but what are we now?

I dont know. I just heard you

I know, the old man said, not bothering to hide his sadness anymore. Look, I just gave you enough information so you could do some work, maybe even discover you havent been spending this afternoon talking to a crazy old man. Then, when you see I wasnt lying, maybe youll pay attention to the one thing I have thats actually worth something to you.

I will, I said, knowing it was a promise I was making.

Always stand your ground, the old man told me then. Yeah, you know that. Think you do, anyway. But standing your ground means not just picking the right ground to stand, its making sure youve got the right people to stand it with.

Theres where we went wrong. And, by the end, we had more martyrs than we had movement.

I never saw him again.

Never forgot him, either.

* * *

I woke up realizing that, even way back then, I was always paying attention. Listening to anyone who I thought might have answers for questions no kid should ever have to ask.

I was trying to find the path. Not to some Taoist ideal, to someplace where I could belong. The path that would prove my fatherthe Statewas wrong. They thought I belonged in some kind of cage. As I got older, they kept changing the names of the cages, but they never changed their mind.

Every time I got back on the streets, I knew prison was somewhere down the road, a cheap motel with a bright, blinking VACANCY sign. Even stronger than the hate in my heart was my need to believe prison was a stop on my journey, not the final destination.

Belonging to a street gang wasnt what I was looking for. Id been there, and I knew. A gang is something you belong to, not with.

It was a long time before I figured out the only place you ever truly belong is the place you make for yourself.

You cant buy it; you have to build it. Blood in, blood outthats just another pair of handcuffs. Tattoos dont make you anyones brother.

I was searching for somethinganythingto explain why Id been picked for the diet of blood, terror, and pain I was raised on.

Back when I was still a gang kid, I thought prison was where true men of honor were formed: a test you had to pass, with self-respect the top grade. I finally learned that was a lie, but I learned it in prison. From my true father.

You cant do your own time in here, Youngblood, he broke it down for me. You try, you die. This school only got two rules. You volunteer for lockup, or you walk the yard.

I didnt say anything. I was there to listen. And we were standing on the yard.

Yeah, he said, as if Id answered a question correctly. Okay, boy, heres the slant on the plant: you dont diss, you never kiss, but if your name still gets called, make sure you dont miss.

I nodded, still too awed to speak. The Prof was a legend Inside. And he had picked me to school.

Only thing thats true is what you do is what he taught.

I live that. Thats how I found the one place I rightfully belong. My heart and my life. Your life doesnt mean any more to me than I ever meant to any of you. Trespassers should bring their own body bags.

* * *

The one-use-only, cloned-chip cell buzzed.

Location Four, Pryce said. Plus two.

I checked my watch: 11:00 p.m. Plenty of time. I threw in a stack of bootlegged CDs and listened to Stevie Ray Vaughan destroy a stereotype with The Sky Is Crying. I went out of the door on Bobby Blands Ive Got to Know.

You want company, boss? Aint nobody going to check in this late, especially in this weather.

No thanks, Gate. But Id appreciate it if youd

By then, Rosie had already vaulted into his lap.

* * *

Pryce didnt like public places. Liked them even less after dark. I reversed the Plymouth into the open bay of a Brooklyn factory slated for the wrecking ball. I wasnt surprised when the accordion door descended in front of my windshield, sliding on soundless runners.

He climbed into the front seat of the Roadrunner, making the capture a two-way street. Pryce wasnt into ceremony or bravado; he was the kind of man who keeps his copyrights up to date.

You have something? he opened.

Just a suspicion.

Go.

Cui bono?

I didnt know you studied Latin in prison. But I do know you didnt call another meet just to tell me this wasnt a ransom snatch again.

No, I didnt. I think you knew that even before you called me. But I also think you hired me to find porterhouse in a fish store.

English, okay?

Not a ransom, so has to be a freak. Maybe a sex freak, maybe a Master Race freak. Or one with dual membership. Thats your math, right? So your next play is, ask the man who knows them.

And?

Sometimes, you can bond a man to you with gratitude. Especially if you do something for him money cant buy. You know all that; you did all that. Only the tree you planted sprouted a lot of branches.

He made some faint gesture with his right hand.

Someone wants something from your sheikh, I told him. Not money. Something he could get done, but nothing you could make him dounless he was bonded to you, too.

Maybe, he conceded.

Youd think he could just have another baby. Ten more, if he wanted.

Agreed.

And thattraining he was doinghe liked doing it. Right also? I pressed.

Yes, Pryce said. You had to be listening real close to catch the slight change in his breathing. I always listen real close.

The baby gets his value because hes a direct descendant of the OG himself. Thats what your boy told me, I said.

Its true.

But that bloodline runs through the father, not the mother.

So youre saying the baby isnt irreplaceable. Unless

He cant make another one.

But he could, Pryce said, sticking a pin into that balloon. There was no fertility clinic involved in the birth of this one. No embryo implant, no special

And if the mother was shipped home, tried for infanticide, and found guilty, what then?

Tried? Pryce snorted.

Exactly. So the Sheikh starts over. No shortage of choices. Maybe even covers his bets, since he needs a son if he wants the kid to stay in the running for the throne.

Yes. So?

So it still wouldnt be the same for him. He had years invested into training his successor. Starting over, that would be tricky. Especially with what he has to figure you found out about him by now. But if this baby was recovered somehow, and handed back to himmaybe with a hint that it cost a few lives to pull it offthen he mightmight be grateful.

A man like

I know. Anything he gets, he believes hes entitled to. Probably doesnt even know what gratitude feels like. But whoever returns that baby gets two cards, not one. One might pile up some gratitude, but thats no ace of trumps. The other is: the Sheikh has to be thinking, Maybe the people who returned the baby to me are the same ones who took him. Which means

they could do it again.

Anytime they wanted, I said, using language the Sheikh himself would understand.

Pryce went so still that his pulse rate probably couldnt be detected.

Time passed.

You think the Prince went to the wrong people for help, before he came to us? he finally said.

Could be.

He studied me for a long minute. He did, the shape-shifter admitted. But they didnt. Never mind the theorizing, okay? Just keep doing your work. Ive got some of my own to do now.

He handed me a gym bag.

Theres enough in there for whatever you could possibly need, next two, three weeks. Dont reach out for me. Every contact you have is already erased. When Im ready, Ill find you.

Good enough, I agreed. But what if I find the kid myself, looking where you told me to? Ive got to have some way to

Tell the guy who manages that flophouse you live in to wear a bright-red jacket next time he walks the dog.

Hes in a

I know. He wont have to go far; a couple of blocksll be enough.

Got a camera on me, have you?

Better, he said. Then he slipped out of the Roadrunner and back into the darkness.

The garage door rolled up. I rolled out.

* * *

It took the Mole a round-the-clock session with his machines before he finally announced: Not in here.

He might have completed the sweep-job quicker if Michelle hadnt shown up. The Mole just tuned her out, leaving the harder work to me.

Pryce is watching us, honey, I told her. We have to know where hes watching from.

How do you know that hes not just?

Pryce doesnt work that way. Besides, hed have to see the signal we agreed on for it to do him any good.

Okay, so hes got a way to watch the street. Why would he want to plant anything inside your place, too?

I dont know. Truth is, I dont think he could. But information is his god, and he never misses a service.

* * *

I turned to Max. Hed spent the night crawling the rooftops. Nothing.

Whats that leave, I asked my family, a fucking satellite?

Either Terry didnt get my sarcasm, or he shared his fathers respect for my techno-knowledge. That could be it was all he said.

The Mole nodded. The mechanisms are already in place. What he would need is a private channel. There is only one way Gateman could exit

Two, I reminded him.

The Mole shrugged. If Pryce already has imagesand he musthe could load the channel with recognition software. It would alert only if its pre-sets were triggered.

He gets a picture of Gateman, Terry explained. He gets one of Rosie. He makes a series of digital files. He knows the height of the dog, and the height of the wheels on Gatemans chair. When both show up at the same time, all hed need was a color-code activator.

I hope thats exactly what hes got, I told them all.

What? Michelle wasped out at me.

If Pryce has what it takes to get that private channel youre talking about, hes also got enough to find out if the CIA took the baby. And one thing we know for sure: the FBIs been fighting to keep the CIA out of Stateside work. Maybe theyve succeeded, maybe not.

So they can argue over who gets to cover what ground, but theres no argument about who covers the skies. That probably means the CIAs in this. But it also means they didnt take the kid, and they dont know who did.

What does that make us? Michelle said.

Even, honey, I told her. Dead even.

* * *

When Clarence showed up carrying a slim black aluminum attaché case, wearing a perfectly fitted midnight-blue suit instead of his usual peacock regalia, I knew hed consulted Michelle. Diagnosis confirmed by the bouquet of deep-purple orchids he presented to Taralyn, with a courtly bow and a simple, This is a poor way to show my gratitude and my admiration. I hope someday you will permit me to do better.

At least somebodys plans were working out.

The Prof shooed them both away, glanced around the spacious room, made a come on with it gesture to me.

I cant make it add up, I told him. Theres a piece of this, a percentage of that, but nothing I can build anything with.

Even if

Yeah. Even if I figure theyre all lying, it doesnt get me anywhere. I know some people lie just to be lyingmaybe they cant help themselves, maybe they get off doing it, who knows? But theres truth somewhere in all this. The baby did get snatched. That Sheikh does want him back. And Pryce for damn sure wants the Sheikh to get what the Sheikh wants.

What you saying, boy? You cant go until you know?

Maybe thats right, Prof. But I know this much already: that asshole had never even considered the possibility of his kid being snatched.

He told you that?

Yeah, I said, not bothering to explain that I didnt need words to ask a freak a question, or use my ears to get an answer. This one thinks hes untouchableand he probably is, as far as the Law is concerned. But this game of his was strictly private, and he wouldnt want some tabloid putting him on the front page, so he knew he was in a risk zone every time he went out on one of his training exercises. Training the baby, I mean.

The Prof nodded at the indisputable truth of life at street level. Every hooker who steps into a strangers car knows she may be getting ready to turn the Death Trick. But the john never thinks that the whore climbing into his front seat could be wiggling her hips like that alligator snapping turtles tongue. She could have a pistol in her purse and Aileen Wuornos on her mind, seeing everything in trauma-vision.

Yeah, he stinks of entitlement, I said. You can smell it on him. But hes not retarded. Or nuts. If he thought bullets would bounce off him, why have bodyguards at all?

So?

Soso its like, to him, exactly what he says on the tape. Women are holes. Plenty of men think thats all theyre good for, but how many think thats all they are? A holes not dangerous, unless you step into oneand that hed never do. So hes in total control. Thats why the conversation through the window first. Thats his screening interview. He thought he had it all covered.

Kidnap his son? Outdoors? In the middle of New York City? Thatd never cross his mind. Hes no military guy, but hes got a stalkers mind. He knows you have to plan things. And whod plan that?

The capper is, even after it happens, hes still not really believing it. Who would plan such a thing, pull it off, and not be doing it for money? Thats the ultimate mind-fuck for him, because it violates the one thing I know he believes in.

And that aint Allah, true enough. Butcome on, son: they jumped him, then they just dumped him. Like they didnt

care if he lived or died, I know. Wheres the money in that? Fuck, if some skells had come along and cut his throat to make sure he wouldnt wake up while they were helping themselves to his jewelry, where would ransom money even come from?

Thats how I know theres no way he staged it himself, just to watch the White House kiss his royal ass. He was seriously out of it when the cops found him. He just got lucky that he woke up and started pulling strings, before someone came along and cut his.

The Prof closed his eyes. Not from being tired. Id watched him do the same thing a million times, closing his eyes to see deeper. Saying anything to him while he was working criminal algorithms in his head would be like pulling the plug on a running mainframe.

I sat there and waited. Im good at it.

* * *

I hadnt looked at my watch, so I couldnt tell how much time passed before the Prof suddenly said, Remember what I taught you, son: only a dope always stays inside the ropes.

Meaning: playing by the rules is playing the game of the guy who made the rules. Outlaws have rules, too. But theyre our rules. Robbing a bank violates your laws. Ratting out a crime partner violates ours.

I cant get past

Yeah, you can, Schoolboy. A bigger punch dont mean the other guys gonna eat your lunch. He tapped his temple. Brought his palms together in Maxs gesture for focus. You remember that Rumble in the Jungle bullshit? Soon as Foreman figured out the script, he up and quit.

I remember.

Break it down, the old man said.

I took that as a single question on a bigger test, said: Yeah, Foreman quit all right, they just called it a KO. That second Duran-Leonard fight? No más didnt mean I quit, it meant Fuck this! Duran wasnt hurt, he was just disgusted. Once he realized he couldnt sucker Leonard into playing Quién es más macho? like he had the first time, Duran knew he didnt have a chance. So he just walked away.

But Foreman didnt have that problem. He was an intimidator, a stone thug who could back up the look with the stones in his gloves. Sent Norton into cardiac arrest before their fight even started. But that was never his whole game. Guys he couldnt scare, like Frazier, hed just pound on them until they stayed down. Not like Tyson. He never could beat a man who wasnt scared of him in front.

Thats what Holyfield knew, that secret, the Prof agreed. Heart. You go against Tyson thinking survival, he tears you apart. But if you go in thinking destruction, Tyson dont know what to do. You didnt have to hit harder than he did, you just had to take what he threw and keep throwing back.

That would never work with Big George. You remember Ron Lyle? How was he gonna be scared of any prizefight? You cant hold a shank in a boxing glove. And Lyle, he could put you to sleep with either hand. But he was a prison fighterspent too much time with the weights, never got his head straight.

Ron drops George a couple of times, but George, he just keeps getting up. It was a hell of a fight, but George finally put Lyle down for the count. You could outbox GeorgeJimmy Young showed thatbut thats like dancing around a building: looks easy, but you better make sure the fucking thing dont fall on you.

Prison fighters, I said, nodding. Jumbo Cummings looked like he could knock out a buffalo, butAnd remember that head case, Etienne?

It wasnt really a question; I knew the Prof tracked anything that came out of his birthplace. Clifford The Black Rhino Etienne had proven he was the perfect parole candidate by winning the Louisiana prison boxing championship. Soon as he was cut loose, he turned pro, won a lot of fights, made some excellent money. His biggest score was the million-plus he got for lasting less than a minute with Tyson. Now hes back where he started, doing a telephone-number sentence for aiming a gun at the cops after a botched robbery.

Howm I gonna forget that sorry-ass dope fiend? the old man said. Louisiana aint never gonna change. Now, Leadbelly, he could sing his way out of the camps more than once, because a bluesman only gets better with age. Aint no boxer who ever did that.

No, I said, thinking of Ricky Womack, an undefeated heavyweight who turned pro young, did a long stretch Inside for a homicide, then went back to Detroit and climbed into the ring. He was forty by then, but he put together a few straight winsand then he died. The coroner said it was suicide.

Bobby Halpern was even closer to homedid his time right here. Older than Womack when he finished his stretch, he was one of the first guys to lose to Trevor Berbick. Probably had no illusions about big money, but he could fight locally, make a few bucks on the side. Ten days after his last fight, person or persons unknown used him for target practice. Bobby survived, but his boxing career didnt.

I remembered how network TV covered the career of James Scott for years. A light-heavy contender, Scott was supposed to be the next great thing, so doing a life sentence for murder wasnt a problemthey just brought the cameras inside.

As soon as he dropped a couple of fights, they dropped the coverage, but the same deal still works, even today. When the womens junior-flyweight world title became vacant, the match to determine the championship was held inside a Thai prison. After the Thai won the fight, the government immediately announced she was going to be freed. After all, she could be stripped of her title if she didnt defend it within six months. Such injustice cannot be tolerated in a democracy, even one where making fun of the King is a double-digit crime.

SoAli, then? the Prof came back to it, boring in, demanding more.

I think, that first time, he was scared of Liston, I said. But that didnt matter; Sonny did what the people who owned him told him to do.

After a while, Ali wasnt scared of anyone. Somehow, he discovered he could take a shot to the head like nobody else. That was his secret weapon, and he used it too often. Look at him now.

Foreman knew he couldnt scare Ali, but he figured he didnt need towith what he was packing, itd only be a matter of time. A few rounds later, Foreman found out the truth. Throwing bombs at Ali was like pounding on the heavy bagits a great workout, but sooner or later youre too gassed to throw another punch. When the other guy keeps taking your best shots and laughing them off, he takes your heart, too.

That aint the question, the old man said, shifting from Professor to Prophet. His eyes could slice diamonds.

I dont under

Try it this way, my father said. Ali. What was that boya fool or a tool?

You mean the Muslim thing?

Damn! What we really talking about here? We got places to go, and not much time to get there. Come on, son. Use what you got. The Rumble in the Jungle, they called it. You remember which jungle?

Zaire, I said, just starting to catch a glintlike the reflection off a straight razor in a dark alley.

So Ali goes to fucking Zaire because hes all about liberating his people? What fucking people? Zaire was just the name that baby-killing snake Mobutu slapped on the piece of the Congo he controlled. That butcher murdered more black folks in a day than the Klan did in a century.

You know how many of his slavesthats right, I know what the fucking word meansyou know how many of them died to build the goddamn stadium they held that fight in?

For years, that Mobutu motherfucker was big-time pals with every president we had. Just like the Shah used to be. All he had to do was dance for his masters and theyd let him rule the other niggers. Same as they used to do with the convict bosses. Make those field hands work during the day, you could do whatever you wanted to them after dark.

Mobutu, he was always a good nigger; always knew his place. Hated those fucking Commies. And thats all it took, back in those days.

The old mans voice never changed volume, but it penetrated like an icepick through cardboard.

The whole businessyou know, when the Supreme Court cut Ali loosethat was a whores kiss. See, Ali, thats a strong black man. So him fighting in Zaire, that tells the world that Mobutu is one righteous dude.

Youre saying Elijahs boys had a deal with?

Im saying all you got to do is add and subtract, Youngblood. Who was president when the Supreme Court all of a sudden reversed that bullshit case they held over Ali for all those years? Simple trade: Ali makes Zaire all about black liberation, and Mobutu keeps the Commies from getting a foothold in the Congo. Fucking sweet, huh?

And everybody kept up their end of the deal, right down the line. You know why we never made a move against all that killing in Rwanda? Because Mobutu wouldnt have liked thathe was fucking backing it.

The old man leaned back, closed his eyes. African unity, my black ass, he snapped. You got to ask yourself: you think Ali picked Zaire? Was he too fucking stupid to know who Mobutu was? Or did he tank for the government, just like Sonny had tanked for him?

So why should I be trusting?

Now, thats my son, the old man said, approvingly. About time you showed up. Sure, its an old, cold trail. But you got to go back down that road. Theres still freelance units working over there. Sure, most of them probably be dead, but its the only place where you still carry that cred.

Talk about long shots.

What other shot we got, Schoolboy? That spook Pryce is good for the coin, and he wont ask questions. Were down to our last pass, and we got to be dead straight on the hard eight. If we want to know, we got to throw.

* * *

As Clarence re-entered his room, the Prof slipped into a backward segue so smooth it took me a few seconds to catch up.

Only difference between pro boxing and pro wrestling today is the costumes, he sneered.

Youre saying theyre all fixed? I played along.

Why fix a fight when you own both of the fighters, Schoolboy? When I was a kid, they had these carnival fighters. Usually little guys, especially compared to some of those farm boys whod step up and try them out. Fighters like that, they knew how to do their thing in a ring.

Then why didnt they?

What? Sign up with some promoter? A carnival fighter, that was a man. A free man, get it? He might never get to wear no plastic belt, but he made a living with his skills. Fed his family, and didnt have to kiss ass to do it.

I guess thats gone now, I said, more to keep the Prof rolling than anything else.

That last part never be gone, son.

I was talking about

You think they dont have carnival fighters no more? Hah! You know better than that. You was taught better than that.

You never said anything about

Wheres the truth? the old man demanded. Where you always go to look for it?

Ground up, Clarence and I answered as one.

The old man beamed. Yeah, you my boys, all right. My own boys. Somedayhe paused to look directly at Clarenceyour boys gonna learn from you. The flame never goes out. Nothing changes; it just burns different. Truth stays truth. If it aint a lie, it cant never die.

So where are the carnival fighters? I challenged him, knowing Id lose, wanting his younger son to see that happen.

You ever hear of Reggie Strickland? the old man asked, a triumphant grin on his face.

No. Whos

Reggie is your modern-day carnival fighter, Schoolboy. You know how some clowns get a title shot after a dozen fights? Thats not behind their skills, thats behind their management. You got more undefeated boxers out there now than there used to be boxers. Hows a thing like that happen?

They put them in against stiffs.

Sometimes, the old man conceded. But how long can one of those tomato cans last, doing that? Reggie, hes been fighting more than twenty years. Over four hundred professional fights. Started out as a forty-pounder, and now he goes against middleweights, light-heavies, cruisersanybody you pay him to fight, get it?

How could anyone have that many?

You know these nicknames some fighters got, make you think they got a gorilla for a father and a tiger for a mother? Not Reggie. He about business, okay? For what he does, you dont need no nickname, you need an alias. Way I hear it, he fights under half a dozen different names. There was even word going around that he fought on the same card twice in one night.

Damn.

Thats right. Reggie, hes a professional record-builder. Your fighter needs a win, Reggies your man. But you not asking the right question, boy. Hows a man stay on the road, go wherever the bus stops, climb off, work a few rounds, get back on the busand keep doing it for so many years?

Idont know, I said, honestly. Whats he do, flop in the first round every time?

Reggie? The old man drew back his head, clearly insulted. My mans won more fights than most fighters ever have. Even for those Mexican kids they let turn pro when theyre only fifteen, fifty-sixty fights is a long career. Reggies no tanker, hes a boxer. You put him in some four-rounder in your boys hometown, you gonna get the decision. Build that record. But thats all youre gonna get. See, you can beat Reggie, but you not gonna hurt him.

Mans got to be past forty, fighting kids half his age and twice his size, and they still cant do nothing with him. Reggie losing, I dont know, maybe three hundred fights, thats just like the carnival fighter who lets the farm boy fire those haymakers that never really land, see? He knows how to smother a mans punches, make sure the local wins the prize for lasting the whole round with the pro, sends the crowd home happy.

Its not about Reggie being a tough guy. You know what happens when a fighter catches too many to the head. Sooner or later, it hurts you just to listen to him talk. Reggie, he got skills.

Has to have, I admitted.

You just got to know where to look, our father admonished both his sons. And keep looking until you find it.

If its there, I said.

Only one way you get to say. The old man shifted his head to take us both into his thousand-fathom eyes. You want to be sure theres no mouse in a house, you need to spend a few nights there yourself. And leave some cheese out, too.

* * *

Border-crossing isnt what it used to be. But Homeland Security never was what it was supposed to be.

All it took was a quick conversation over a sat-phone, ending with a PIN number that would disgorge bank-certified cash from a certain ATM. The one we used had security cameras that were easier to grease than a poultry inspector. Less than forty-eight hours after my call, I touched down in Geneva.

The hotel was still there. Same name, same spot. Only now it was part of an international chain. You never have to worry about some Historical Preservation Society interfering in a country where the most treasured tradition is treasure.

Looking around the lobby, I didnt see anything I remembered. But I wasnt looking for memories.

The last time Id been there, it had been an all-cash experience. This time, my suite had been direct-billed to an import-export company. That company was as phony as my passport, but it was flush with some of the absolutely real money Pryce had handed over in that gym bag.

I wasnt worried about the hotel running any serious check on my personal paperwork, but I knew the credit card would have already been vetted like a candidate for bank president.

I was booked in for eight days. I had to move fast and walk slow. Like being back Inside.

Dinner didnt give me any hints. The only way to tell the wealthy vacationers from the arms dealers was the age gap between them and their female companions. And even that was a guess. All the servers were too young for me to even think about asking them my question.

Access to the hotels personnel records was about as likely as the chef allowing me to take over the kitchen for the evening.

The concierge was everything youd expect in such a jointhe knew all the answers, including the ones he couldnt give out.

In a spy novel, Id charm some luscious chambermaid into bed. Her best pal would be a girl who worked in the pension department. A few hours of expertly inducing full-body orgasms, and Id have all my answers.

Me, I went for a walk. At least the damn river still looked the same.

The little shop where Id gone after Id been taught to say, Avez-vous des livres anglais? was still therebut it wasnt a bookstore anymore.

The man whod taught me that phrase was who I was looking for. Norbert had been a junior concierge when Id come to this same hotel, eons ago. He was only a few years older than me, but a century ahead in experience.

Im not sure what tipped him, but the possibilities were endless: my clothes werent right; I couldnt speak French or German, never mind Russian or Chinese; I didnt know steak tartare meant raw meat. And the only time Id seen the inside of a prep school had been during a burglary.

After Id waited a couple of days, Norbert came over to where I was sitting in the lobby. I was smoking the last of the Dunhills Id picked up in England, figuring theyd give me some class.

He asked me if he could be of any assistance, phrasing it so Id know he wasnt putting me down. I told him I was just waiting for some friendswed all arranged to meet in Geneva before taking off to go skiing.

Norbert smiled thinly. Then he asked me if I had ever seen the Rhone at night. It was a unique spectacle, not something Id want to miss. And there were benches just a short walk from the hotels door.

He was there when I arrived. Id seen plenty of men sitting on benches in my life, but this was the first time I saw one do it elegantly.

I knew I was in the kind of jungle where I couldnt tell the parrots from the piranhas, but something in Norbert pulled me hard, and I ended up telling him as much of the truth as I could.

Biafra? he said when I finished, making the word into a question.

Yeah, I repeated.

All those children.

I just waited for the rest.

You are a very brave man was what he said.

I didnt feel brave; I felt worthless. Thats the core truth of why I had grabbed at the chance to be a hero, and get paid big money, too. I knew at least some of what the men in suits had told me was the truth. A whole nation was being exterminated while the world watched. So sad. Enough to make you change channels.

When the Nigerians got the money they needed from the countries that wanted their oil, they stepped up the slaughter. The generals bought a lot of new toys, from surplus fighter jetsand Egyptian pilotsto missiles, bombs, and river-killing poisons. By then, they had the Biafrans completely landlocked, like they were all trapped in the same cellar. The only exit led to a tornado of bullets and bombsor they could just stay in there and starve to death, if they didnt suffocate first.

At first, the world got to see it happening. But after the Nigerians turned up the heat, the reports stopped coming. The journalists were the last to goonce all the communication links were cut, they couldnt file their stories. When the war turned into an extermination project, it stopped being televised. For the first time in history, a Red Cross plane was shot down.

The outcome was never in doubt, just the timetable. The only way to get food into what was left of Biafra was to fly unarmed cargo planes, taking off every night from Săo Tomé. If they got past the attacking jets, a radio signal would direct them to Uli Airport, a dirt strip in the jungle lit only by flares. They had thirty seconds to get down before the flares went out. Then only a few minutes to unload and get back upthe flares always drew fire.

The worlds heartstrings had almost snapped from the earlier images, and money flowed in to anyone collecting it. Some of that actually got turned into food, but most of that food was rotting in warehouses. You couldnt get anything humans needed to survive past the blockade, only over it. And even the few planes that made it didnt have the cargo capacity to make any real difference.

So when men in suits approached a State-raised kid whod just been released from his first adult prison sentence, I was so dumb and so desperate that I never questioned why they would pick someone like me for such an important mission.

All I could think of was, When I come back, Ill be a different man. In their eyes, and my own, too. I wouldnt be a kid whod spent his life never being wanted by anyone except the police. Id be the hero who helped save all those starving kids. And have some legit money in my pocket, too.

My assignment was to find an overland route into the landlocked area. The men in suits said they could convoy food and supplies through Cameroonthey called it an open market area, a place where cash solves all problems. The supplies themselves were stockpiled in Gabon, the next country over. That one was a friendly, one of the few countries that actually recognized Biafra.

The way they explained it to me, I was perfect for the job. They told me to picture Biafra as one of those juvie joints Id grown up in. My job was to escapeand leave trail markers behind. All I had to do was get over the border into Cameroon. They told me what names to say as soon as I made it across.

Those convoys in Gabon were all ready to roll on through. They just needed to know a spot where it was safe to slip into Biafra.

And, me, I would have helped save all those babies.

Me.

When youve got no one to trust, you end up trusting anyone. If Id been anything other than a born-to-lose kid with nothing in his future but more time behind bars, if Id had anyone I could talk to, if Id

It doesnt matter now. I took the assignment.

I must have believed what they told me. Or wanted to so badly that it didnt make a difference. Because, when I explained my mission to Norbert, his dry blue eyes teared up.

The very next morning, people came to visit me at the hotel. One of them brought a bunch of official-looking papers. The Swiss love their documents, Norbert told me, tonelessly.

Next stop, Lisbon. More exchanges, and I was on my way to Angola.

After that, it got ugly. Biafra fell. Maybe a million dead. Later, I found out that the people who sent me actually got what they wanted. No surprise: they were used to getting what they paid for. Maybe thats how my name first surfaced in Pryces parallel universe; Ill never know.

What I do know is that I never got to be a hero. I was just a thing they used. I guess those men in suits were my guidance counselors, because they sure picked my career for me.

I learned a lot during that career, most of it by watching. And listening. What I dont know would fill a galaxy. But what I do know, I know better than any of them.

Patience. Waiting. Being sure. Every time Id been wrong about someone, Id go back and figure out what Id missed. One time, it took years. But I had plenty of time to think during that stretch.

Now I know. Humans who could flat-line a polygraph wouldnt get past the first round with me. All it takes is a few minutes of conversation, and I know you. Not because I have X-ray eyes. Not because I have powers. Because, whoever you are, Ive met you before.

Baby-rapers dont age out the way armed robbers do. Deep truth doesnt change. If Norbert was still alive, hed know how to find people who could put together an operation like snatching a baby from a sheikh.

And I knew, somehow, that if I asked him, hed do it.

* * *

I wasted one more day of my second visit to Geneva before I accepted what I should have known from the opening bell. All Id ever had was a punchers chance, and I couldnt keep waiting for the other guy to come to me.

So I unpacked the stupid-expensive outfit Michelle had separately stored in my luggage, remembering her warning that it wouldnt work if I left out any single piece. Then I called, asked for the manager, and politely inquired if I might have a few moments of his time. His assistant asked if noon would be satisfactory.

I shaved, showered, and dressed. Then I sat in my corner and waited for the bell.

* * *

I have not visited your hotel for a long time, I told the short, round-faced Eurasian man. We were in the private sitting room reserved for consultations with guestsguests who had booked suites big enough to hold revival meetings.

He raised his perfectly sculpted eyebrows a quarter-millimeter.

I was a guest in 1969, I said, smiling nostalgically. A lifetime ago, it seems. I was a young man, doing what my parents thought of as the Grand Tour.

I didnt think the guest register from 1969 would be preserved on some damn computer he could instantly access, but I was prepared to explain the name change, if those eyebrows of his moved again.

Anyway, I continued, I really was very naďve, about so many things. And I believe I learned more during my stay here than I did from any educational institution, before or since.

We are honored, he said. His body posture was expectant, not anxious.

My father started a coin collection for me when I was born. Not simple currency like this, I said, placing a ten-coin clear plastic cylinder of Canadian Maple Leafs on the coffee table, a thick slab of pure-white marble with an orange sunburst inlaid in its center, but true numismatic gems.

I put another cylinder on the table, unscrewed the top, dropped a coin into my hand, and hockey-pucked it across the marble with my finger. Gold coins are quite good for some transactions, especially in places where the local currency isunstable. But, I continued, taking out a third cylinder, I was only looking for rarities, hoping to find something special to show my father when I returned.

Ah, was all the manager said.

One of your employees took me under his wing. He gave me a sense of confidence that I had never possessed beforeand never lost since. As a result, I was able to make several purchases that truly impressed my father. I vowed that, one day, I would come back and express my appreciation personally.

He tilted his head, waiting.

But time seems to just slip away from you, I said, regretfully. I was too busy running things, making money I never needed in the first place. Andwell, I never came back. I realize Norbert must be retired by nowI cant imagine him leaving; this hotel was his lifeand I was hoping that you still had him on your booksa pension recipient, perhaps?

You wish to contact a former employee of ours?

I do.

Switzerland is a country where we value confidentiality above all, Mr. Jackson.

I understand that. In fact, I respect it deeply. I have had many good reasons to do so, I told him, implying that I had found my countrys tax laws somewhat burdensome on occasion. I would never expect you to divulge information. I merely, humbly, request that you transmit a message to Norbert. He, of course, could then decide

The message? the manager cut me off, politely.

Just that the young man who was about to embark on a great journey in 1969 never forgot his kindness, and would greatly appreciate an opportunity to pay his respects.

The manager stood up. We shook hands. His hand came away as empty as it was when he opened it. You dont insult a man of his status with crass bribery. But I suspected that the three tubes of Canadian Maple Leafs Id forgotten to take with me when I left the sitting room werent going to be called to my attention.

* * *

The cream-colored envelope was slipped under my door at just past two in the morning. I let it stay there, untouched. If a second message was going to come, better to let the deliveryman believe I was fast asleep.

The gift Id bought for my wife was in my hand, ready for work. Wüsthof cutlery is made in Germany, but some of the best Swiss shops carry it. Id told the obsequious salesman that I wouldnt dare return home without a proper present, and my wife already had more jewelry than a team of Clydesdales could haul.

Hed been puzzled by my lack of interest in having him mail the set directly to the States: Those airport people, sir, they can be extremely I told him that I had quite a number of presents yet to purchase, and the hotel would handle the whole packing-and-shipping thing for meno point in even gift-wrapping what Id bought.

I waited until a little past seven in the morning before I used the point of the knife to pull the envelope all the way inside. I slipped on latex gloves before I opened it, working under the screen Id made out of one of the shirts Id packed. The cloth it was made from wouldnt breatheif you actually put it on, youd be sweating like a lobbyist under oath.

But there was no disposal-dust inside, just a folded piece of hotel stationery. The note was handwritten, using a fountain pen in close-to-calligraphy formal script:

I was there early. The river was calm. I embraced it, merging its current with my own.

The man who approached was using some kind of walking stick, but his movements were straight-backed and dignified. His fair hair was thinner, stirred by the faint breeze.

Its me, Norbert, I assured him, knowing my face wouldnt resemble the one hed seen a lifetime ago.

He sat down next to me. Extended his hand. His grip was the measured strength of a man who knew he didnt have to prove anything.

War wounds? he said, looking at my face.

Some, I answered, wondering how he could see so well in the night. The rest is from the lousy repair job they did on them.

I am grateful you returned, he said. From Biafra, he added, telling me two things: Id never had the class or the decency to even drop him a note when Id made it back. And I was there now only because I wanted something.

You were nothing but good to me, I told him. I wont insult you by claiming I showed up to apologize for never thanking you properly.

Oh, you did that, he said, gravely. Thosesources I introduced you to, they confirmed I had not misplaced my trust.

How could they know I got out? I was on a

Not that you got out, the elderly man said. That you went in. I believed in yourquest then. What Iarranged, you know it was not for the money I was paid.

I know.

And now you are back.

Yes.

Tell me what you came for this time, Norbert said, cutting right to it. If Alzheimers ever saw this man coming it was going to run for cover.

When I first came here, I was a kid, I told him. A stupid kid. You know what I wanted. What IAh, that doesnt matter. Not now. When I finally got out, I actually went into that business. But in America, I was playing on a field I knew. And I managed to win a few.

He made a sound I couldnt interpret.

Im here because Im trying to find a baby. A baby who was kidnapped.

And you believe the baby is here?

No. Let me tell you how the baby was taken. I waited for his nod. Then gave him everything I had.

Nobody I knew ofback thenwould do such a thing, he said when I finished.

Meaning either they didnt have the ability to work Stateside, or they wouldnt touch that kind of work. I didnt ask him whicha man who believed a street kid when he said he was going to be a child-saving hero was entitled to believe some mercenaries had a moral code.

It was a team, I said. Not one of those regime-overthrowing specialist outfits, and not the kind of private contractors who work in Iraq. This was a small, elite unit. So it wouldnt be incorporated, wouldnt have a Web site, and wouldnt take checks. I understand it couldnt be any of the people you used toknow about. But I thought you might be able to ask a few questions of old friends?

And you want?

The baby. Only the baby.

There is a reward?

A huge one.

For you?

Not a penny for me. Everything goes to whoever helps me get the baby back to his parents, I said. Telling the truth and lying at the same time, a skill Id taken decades of practice to perfect.

So many years, you still want to be a hero? Norbert said, his smile a mixture of wonder and pity.

* * *

The next morning, Norbert introduced him as mon frčre aîné. To which the hard man seated to my right added only, Alain.

He was at least eighty, thin as a tire iron. Blue-agate eyes, ramrod posture, and the kind of baldness that only a used-daily razor produces. Everything about him screamed Military. At his age, that would have put him in the middle of World War II.

I had been seated when they approached. It took Norberts brother only a half-second to figure out that my right eye didnt workI didnt think his choice of where to sit was an accident.

He ignored my offered handshake, locked my good eye with his flat-screen blue ones. You know La Légion Étrangčre?

Rumors, I answered, my body language saying that I didnt put a lot of stock in them.

Most are lies. The French, they arehow shall I say? He made an eloquent gesture with his hands and shoulders, suggesting anything I wanted it to mean.

He snap-checked my face, saw I wasnt going to respond. Whether he read that as professionalism or respect, I couldnt know. What he said was:

Their rules are as flexible as their historians. Loyalty is very important to the French. Loyalty to them. They see what they wish to see, so the concept of purchased loyalty does not strike them as illogical.

I glanced over at Norbert. His face was expressionless. I guess he figured I had grown up enough to know when to shut up.

You are not looking for soldiers, the man who called himself Alain said. Those you seek are not men who fight as brothers-in-arms. True warriors care nothing for some cause, he dry-spat, that last word so heavy with revulsion I was surprised it didnt shatter the stone floor when it fell from his mouth. Warriors fight because war is their life. The flag under which they fight counts for nothing, the bond between them is everything.

We were at the outdoor café where Norbert had told me to be waiting. None of the other tables were occupied. No waitress approached. The place wouldnt open for business for another couple of hours. People occasionally passed on the sidewalk. Curiosity didnt seem to be a Swiss trait.

Independent units still exist, the man of unrusted iron said. They are much in demand, but the samebenefits are no longer available. Money, yes. But who wants to become a citizen of some filthy, savage country? Our breedit is dying.

He moved his head just enough to indicate he was finished with preambles. The training required for the operation you described to my brothernodding slightly across at Norbertwould take considerable time and expertise, but there is no shortage of either. There are always men for hire. Some have no homeland to return toex-Stasi, perhaps. Some can never return home. Each would have his own reason; none would be asked.

Some men who were once part of elite fighting forces from all the worlds armies are well entrenched in the Congo. Some are employed by those who claim to be legitimate rulers. Others are search-and-destroy teams commissioned by those with a political interest in certain areasthe Sahel, for example.

To train a team for what you describe requires a purpose-built unit. To capture is far more difficult than to kill. The usual procedure is to question the survivors, rather than isolate any particular one prior to the assault.

Therefore, such a unit must be assembled like a fine chronograph. This requires considerable investment, because even the most brilliantly written play will fail if the actors are not sufficiently rehearsed. Sets must be created. Sometimes destroyed, rebuilt, and destroyed again. The director must be able to fine-tune, modifyperfect the production before it ever goes public.

Military intelligence is a flexible concept. What works effectively in one climate will be useless in anotherthe Russian front in winter is not the jungles of Burma in the rainy season. In addition to everything else required, absolute secrecy must be maintained during preparation. Total isolation; no communication. There is only one place where operatives such as you described could be trained.

I waited, making sure he had nothing more to say, before I asked, Can you tell me?

I can theorize only, the man who called himself Alain said. It would be a camp, but not a permanent one. I cannot tell you where it would be, exactly, but I know the borders within which it mustcould only exist.

I heard there was an entire exSAS unit working in the

No, he said, sharply. I told you: there will always be men who cannot return. Once there was a place in the world even for them. A place where no judgments were made except those of the warrior. You arehe scanned me as dispassionately as an MRInicht reinrassig, yes? Perhaps Zigeuner?

I shrugged. I didnt need a translator. He wanted to make sure I understood he knew I was no purebred.

That would not matter to us, he told me, telling me my translation was all wrong. He wasnt being magnanimous or condescending when he IDed me as a man with Gypsy blood; he was just telling me how it was. Once. A legionnaire is a fighting man, he said. He who becomes one of us leaves everything behind: his politics, his religion, his family. The only blood that ever mattered to us was that of the enemy.

I nodded. Whether what he was saying was true or not didnt matter to me. But what he said next did.

We were a fighting force, not hired killers paid to use machine guns against machetes. To those kind of people, bloodlines would matter. In fact, they would be raison dętre.

Robert Johnson stood at the Crossroads, but he didnt get to keep the fruits of his bargain long, I thought. But you, you still have yours more than fifty years later, dont you? You made a deal with the devil to protect your baby brother. And when that devil died by his own cowardly hand, you made a deal with another, to keep yourself alive. You had nothing America wanted; all you knew was soldiering, not rocket science or nuclear fusion. But the French, they always had work that needed doing.

I got it then: asking this man for anything more than hed already told me would be like trying to sculpt marble with a butter knife.

* * *

Back in my room, I added it up. Norberts brother hadnt been theorizing hed been giving me an experts analysis. His credibility was his own past. This was a man who would stand in front of a firing squad and refuse the blindfold; hed want the executioners to see a warriors final contempt for murderers who called themselves soldiers. His funeral shroud would be his own loyalty. Not loyalty to some Fatherland. Not loyalty to an army, or a team of mercenaries. Loyalty to his blood-oath. I dont know who whispered Protect your little brother to him so many years ago. But I knew he had never wavered, no matter the cost.

So when hed told me snatching the Sheikhs baby hadnt been the work of any mercenary unit, I believed him. When he told me where the team who had done the job must have been trained, I believed him.

I believedbecause I knew what telling me had cost him.

* * *

I am very grateful, I told Norbert that same night, looking at the river. It seemed to have grown blacker, less settled.

Non pas rien.

No, I said. I know the value of things. What you did waseverything.

How do you know Alain wasaccurate? He chose the last word delicately.

I cant tell you. Not because I dont want to, because I dont know a way to say it that wont make me sound insane. I havea gift.

You trust thisgift, then?

Yes, my friend, I do. I handed him a slip of paper with the number that redirects to one of the pay phones right behind my booth at Mamas. Please tell your brother that, should he ever require whatever assistance I might be able to provide, this will find me.

His unlined face flexed just enough to tell me he believed me. Believed in me. And in my gift.

* * *

If they already moved him, hes out of reach, I told my family, Rosie curled at my side on the couch. But if theyre still herein the city, I meanwe can find them. Maybe.

Why not just tell this man Pryce? Clarence asked. Surely, he would have better resourcesif what you were told is true.

It was all true, I answered, thinking, Even the things Alain never said in words. But the people who hired Pryce dont want theories, they want a baby.

And the people who took him, what would they want?

I did have an idea, but Ive let go of it, honey, I said to Michelle. If the goal was to humiliate the Sheikh, there were better ways, especially with the kind of money they spent on this. What we know for sure is that they werent out to cancel his ticket. He was there for the taking, and they passed.

Max rubbed his thumb against the first two fingers of his hand, the universal sign for money, shaking his head at the same time.

This cant be about money, I agreed with my brother. That would make it all some kind of stupid gamble, like Pryce first thoughtand theres not a trace of stupid in any of this.

That is the only theory which fits the known facts, the Mole said, firmly.

Not a word on the Web, Terry added. Nobody taking credit. There wasnt even much screening to do, because

The newspapers dont have the story, so there is no way for the usual frauds to claim credit, Clarence finished for him.

Terry tapped some keys, said: NYPD has it coded as a gun-point robbery. Victim was a homeless man named Milton Johnson. Black. Age fifty-seven. Long sheet. In fact, he was arrested a couple of days later, whole list of petty misdemeanors. Died in custody before they could even transport him. Autopsy is mandatory in all such cases. Cause of death was multiple organ failurehe was a long-term drug-and-alcohol abuser.

How Pryce got that done, I dont know, but every paper door had already been sealed shut. Even one of the docket-divers looking for something to sell the tabloids wouldnt stumble over the Princes name.

It is time to visit my father, Clarence said, looking at his watch.

Max gestured drinking from an imaginary mug held in both hands, making it clear who he was going to consult.

The Mole, Michelle, and Terry took off to have dinner together. Ever since Pryce had delivered Terrys birth certificate, Michelle couldnt stop introducing him to everyone who crossed their path. She hadnt worked out the mechanics yet, so she alternated between pride and suspicion anytime someone told her she looked too young to be his mother.

You think he got those looks from his father? Shed vipersmile, inviting a look at the Moles remarkable resemblance to a formless mass wearing Coke-bottle glasses and a stunned-ox expression. Michelle could do magic with clothes, but the Mole was immunegive him five minutes, and he could transform a four-grand suit into something youd pass up in a Goodwill bin.

Terry suffered in silence. His father had taught him a lot more than science.

On our way out, Gateman was already ordering a pizza. Apparently, Rosie loved hers with extra cheese. The minute Id explained how chocolate was toxic to dogs, Gateman had tossed out his entire stash, Godiva and all.

* * *

When Clarence and I walked into the Profs room, the bed was empty. Clarence gasped some wordless sound. I felt it in a place I thought had frozen over years ago.

Hes around somewhere, I told my younger brother as I walked him to the door. Come on.

We found the Prof near the end of a long corridor. His right hand rested on some kind of thick metal pole that hit the floor on a triangle of rubber-capped legs, his left was around the tiny waist of a woman in a nurses uniform. They were slowly covering ground.

Taralyn, Clarence whispered, his voice a blend of different sighs.

Recognized her from this angle, huh? I said.

I didnt look at his face, but I felt like I was standing next to a sunlamp.

We caught up with them just as the Prof lowered himself, with a little help, onto a free-form couch positioned to provide a magnificent view of the city at night. They can do amazing things with one-way glass these days.

You ever been in New Orleans? he said, by way of greeting.

I knew he wasnt asking me.

No, Father, Clarence answered.

You know those dumbass hansom cabs they got in Central Park? The ones for tourists?

I have seen them, Clarence said, caution seeping into his voice.

Burke here, he hates the whole idea. Hell of a way for a race-horse to spend his last days, right?

Any days at all, I agreed.

Well, now, see, in New Orleans, they got the same thing. Only they dont use horses; they use mules. You know why?

I do not, Clarence said, being very careful now.

Taralyn sat next to the Prof, as composed as if she was in church. But her eyes never left Clarences face as the Prof continued.

Gets too hot, sometimes those Central Park horses just keel over in the street. Supposed to have all kinds of rules about it, but you know how this city is about keeping the rich folks happy. Now a mule, it gets too hot, he pulls a work stoppage. Thats all there is. You cant beat em and you cant bribe em. Cant trick em, either. Now, what am I telling you, boy?

They should use mules here? Clarence guessed.

They shouldnt do that crap at all, the Prof told him, nodding at me. But that aint the point. What Im telling you is, sometimes, people dont understand the difference between stubborn and smart.

Ah.

You take this little girl here, the Prof said, reaching for Taralyns hand. The gesture looked so natural that it couldnt have been the first time. Look like she couldnt lift a bag of groceries, but she strong as a damn mule, son. Twice as stubborn, too.

Mr. Henry! the café-au-lait beauty protested. You know very well that physical rehabilitation is not magic. If I hear one more story about roots and mojos and

Nothing but the truth, girl, the Prof shot back. You think those boys running around here in their white coats, they know everything?

I do not. But I do know that you are to have exercise every day. Before the prosthesis can be fitted properly, you must be in

Now you see? the Prof said to Clarence. Son, please, I beg you. Distract this woman long enough for your brother to get me back to my room.

Come on, old man, I said to the Prof, extending my hand to help him up.

* * *

Its like your long shot pays off, but when you show up to collect, you find out the bookie grabbed the first thing smoking, Schoolboy. What that old guy told you, it has to be right. Never fails: you strain out the trash, whatevers left is pure cash. So, yeah, we got the winning ticket. Only we cant turn it in for the payoff.

By me, we already did.

You mean this joint? Go bring me my sounds.

I carried the black Bose machine that could handle six CDs over to his bed. Following his gestures, I popped the lid. The CD inside was unlabeled. Watching the Prof for hand-signaled instructions, I closed it again. Immediately the LED glowed, as if the CD inside was spinning. But no sound came out of the speakers.

Thats the Mole-mans, the Prof said. He started to tell me how it works, but Little Miss Michelle started in on him about shoes or something. All I know is, it throws off some kind of noise-canceling signal. When that CDs in, whatever ears they got on us aint picking up nothing but a conversation between you and me. One we had, not the one we having, see?

Theyre bugging a recording? I said, shaking my head in wonderment.

Hope so, the Prof replied. But, just in case, keep it all light salad, get me? Nice round olives, no pits.

I nodded. Said: Ive got no contacts I can trust overseas.

The Prof motioned me to lean in close, whispered so softly it was barely a breath.

I stepped back.

Thats the truth, I agreed. But the only way Im going to get to even ask is

One call could do it all, son. But you down to your last dime, and even less time, he cautioned, just as Clarence walked in.

* * *

Whyd you leave that little girl? the Prof demanded.

Father, she works here. She cannot justgo for a walk whenever she desires. This is her job.

Sit down, boy, the old man said, hard-core serious.

I took a seat, too, in case the Prof needed me. That might happen, I heard Michelle snicker, somewhere inside my head.

The little girl aint no crime-mans wife, Clarence. You understand what Im telling you?

Father, I

No way Im leaving this junkyard of a planet without some grandchildren, the old man cut him off. That aint up for negotiation. This one, he said, nodding in my direction, he disqualified himself from that job before you was even born.

I didnt know if the Prof was talking about my commitment to crime or my vasectomy, but I did know it didnt matter.

Listen up, now, the old man said to Clarence. You a natural studyou my son, what else could you be?but all you ever had so far was girlfriends. Burke, he had women. That Belle girl, Jesus rest her sweet soul, now, she was a crime-mans woman. Never a doubt, right down to the minute she cashed out.

My chest hurt from the memory. Belle. A rock-candy girl, born without choices or chances. The day her older sister told her she was also her mother, she told Belle to run for her life. Her mother-sister knew Daddy had decided Belle was grown enough to be next on his list. Belle was still scrambling through the swamp when she heard the gunshots that ended the life of the woman she had always called Sissy.

After that, she did whatever it took. Drove getaway cars for heist artists, took off her clothes on grungy stages for money. Always running from what was inside her.

We found each other in the dark. It was Belle who told me that most baby alligators never live past a few days. As soon as theyre hatched, they charge for the water, but theres too many things blocking their path. Even the ones who make it, theres things waiting for them in the water, too. Very bad odds. The way Belle told it, the few gators who manage to grow big enough to be safe spend the rest of their lives getting even for their brothers and sisters who didnt.

It all ended the night I killed a man who was blocking our familys path to the water. The same night Belle went out in a blaze of police gunfire, drawing the cops away from me, the way her mother had drawn her father away from her. The father who had infected her with that bad blood she always believed she carried. Believed it so strong she would never carry a child of her own.

The Profs voice took me right back to when wed settled that account, years before Clarence became part of us:

* * *

I was standing on the upper level of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, waiting in the night. Back to the wall, hands in the empty pockets of my grimy raincoat. Under the brim of a trash-bin fedora, my eyes swept the deck.

A tall, slim black youth wearing a blue silk T-shirt under a canary-yellow sport coat. Baggy pants with pegged cuffs that broke perfectly over creamy Italian shoes.

Todays pimp, waiting for the bus to spit out its cargo of runaways. Hed have a Maxima with tinted windows waiting in a nearby parking lot. Rap about how hard it was to get adjusted to the city, how he was the same way himself when he first hit town. Now hes a talent scout for an independent film producer. If the girl wanted, hed let her stay at his place for a few days until she got herself together. Plenty of room there: projection TV, VCR, sweet stereo, too. Some fine liquor, even a little coke. High-style. The way its done, babe.

Another black guy, this one in his late thirties. Gold medallion worn beneath an unbuttoned red polyester shirt that would pass for silk in the underground lights. Knee-length black leather coat, players hat with a tasteful red band. Fake gators on his feet.

Yesterdays pimp, waiting his turn. This one would have an old Caddy, promise to make the girl a star. The audition would be in a no-see hotel just down the street. One with metal coat hangers in a closet that would never hold clothes.

Once a wide-eyed runaway got off that bus, she could go easy or she could go hard. But she was going.

Two youngish white guys, talking low, getting their play together. Hoping the shipment of fresh new boys wouldnt be past their sell-by dates.

A blank-faced Spanish kid: black sweatshirt, hood pulled up tight around his head, felony-flyers on his feet. Carry your bags, maam?

A few citizens, waiting on relatives coming back from vacation, or a kid coming home from school. A bearded wino picking through the garbage, muttering.

The Greyhounds air brakes hissed as it pulled into the loading port.

Night bus from Starke, Florida. A twenty-four-hour ride, changing buses in Jacksonville. The round-trip ticket cost $244.

I know; I paid for it.

The man I was waiting for would have a letter in his pocket. A letter in a young girls rounded handwriting. Blue ink on pink stationery.

The slow stream of humans climbed down, most carrying plastic shopping bags, cartons tied together with string, shoulder-duffels. Not a lot of leather luggage rides the Hound.

He was one of the last off the bus. Tall, rawboned man, small eyes under a shock of taffy-honey hair. Belles eyes, Belles hair. A battered carryall in one hand. The Spanish kid never gave him a second glance. A cop might have, but there werent any around.

I felt a winters knot tighten in my chest.

His eyes swept the depot like a prison searchlight.

I moved to him, taking my hands out of my pockets, showing them empty. Hed never seen me before, but he knew the look.

Youre from Belle? he asked. A harsh voice, not softened by the cracker twang.

Yeah. She sent me to bring you to her, I answered, turning my back on him so he could follow, keeping my hands in sight.

I ignored the escalator, took the stairs to the ground floor. Felt the man moving behind me. I knew Max was behind him; shadow-quiet, keeping the box tight.

My Plymouth was parked on a side street off Ninth Avenue. I opened the drivers door, climbed in, reached over, and unlocked his door. Giving him all the time in the world to bolt if he smelled something wrong.

But he climbed in next to me right away. Glanced behind him. All he could see was a pile of dirty blankets.

No backseat in this wagon?

Sometimes I carry things.

He smiled, long yellow teeth catching the neon flash from a topless bar. You work with Belle?

Sometimes.

Shes a good girl.

I didnt answer him, pointing the Plymouth to the West Side Highway. I lit a smoke, tossing the pack on the seat between us. He helped himself, firing a match off his thumbnail, leaning back like a man in charge.

I turned east across 125th, heading for the Triboro Bridge.

Yall got nothin but niggers round here, he said, looking out his window.

Yeah, theyre everyplace.

You ever do time with them?

All my life.

I tossed a token in the Exact Change basket on the bridge and headed for the Bronx. The Plymouth purred off the highway onto Bruckner Boulevard, finding its own way to Hunts Point.

He watched the streets pass, said: Man, if it aint niggers, its spics. This here citys no place for a white man.

You liked the joint better?

His laugh was short and ugly.

I motored on, past blacked-out windows in abandoned buildingsdead eyes in a row of corpses. Turned off the main drag and headed toward the Meat Market. Whores working naked under clear plastic raincoats waved at the trucks as they passed by.

He just watched.

We crossed an empty prairie, tiny dots of light glowing where things that had been born human kept fires burning all night long.

I pulled up to the junkyard gate. Left him in the car while I reached my hand through a gap in the razor wire to open the lock.

We drove inside and stopped. I got out and relocked the gate. Then I climbed back inside, rolled down the window, and lit a smoke.

What do we do now? he asked.

We wait.

The dogs came. A snarling pack, swarming around the car.

Damn! Belles here?

Shes here, I told him. Pure truth.

The Mole lumbered through the pack, knocking the animals out of his way with his knees as he walked, the way he always does. He came up to my open window, peered past me at the man in the front seat.

This is him?

Yeah.

The Mole clapped his hands together. Simba came out of the blackness. A city wolf, boss of the pack. The beast stood on his hind legs, forepaws draped over my windowsill, looking at the man next to me. A low, thick sound came out, as if his throat was clogged with unswallowed blood.

We walk from here, I told the man.

His eyes were ball bearings. I aint walkin nowhere, boy. I dont like none a this.

Too bad.

Too bad for you, boy. You look real close, youll see my hand aint empty.

I didnt have to look close. I knew what hed have carried in his satchelGreyhound doesnt use metal detectors.

The dirty pile of blankets in the back of the Plymouth changed shape.

The man grunted as he felt the round steel holes against the back of his neck.

Your hole card is a low card, motherfucker. The Profs voice, big-chested powerful for such a tiny man. I see your puny pistol and raise you one big-ass scattergun.

Toss it on the seat, I told him. Dont be stupid.

Wheres Belle? he said, frightened now, evoking the name of his property like it was a prayer. I came to see Belle.

Youll see her. I promise.

His pistol made a soundless landing on the front seat. The Mole walked around and opened the passenger door. The man got out, the Profs shotgun right behind. I walked around to his side of the car. Lets go see her, I said.

We walked through the junkyard until we came to a clearing.

Have a seat, I told him, pointing toward a cut-down oil drum. Took a seat myself, lit another smoke.

He sat down, reaching out a large hand to snatch at the pack I tossed over to him out of the air. Good reflexes, lousy survival instincts.

What now? he asked.

We wait, I said, again.

Terry entered the clearing. A slightly built little boy wearing a set of dirty coveralls. That him?

I nodded.

The kid lit a smoke for himself, watching the man. The dog pack watched, too. With the same eyes.

The Mole stumbled up next to me. The Prof by his side, holding his sawed-off like an artist with a paintbrush.

Pansy! I called. A Neapolitan mastiff lumbered out of the darkness, 160 pounds of muscle and bone. Her midnight fur gleamed blue in the faint light, baleful gray eyes pinning as she walked toward the tall man like a steamroller approaching freshly poured tar.

Jump! I snapped at her. Pansy hit the ground, her eyes still locked on her target.

I looked around one more time. All Belles family was in that junkyard. All that was left, except for Michelle. And shed already done her part: not just writing that lettershed been waiting in the shadows next to my Plymouth, in case the guy had spooked and made a run for it.

The Prof handed me a revolver. It warmed my hand.

I stood up.

They got the death penalty in Florida? I asked the man.

You know they do, he said. No fear in his voice; he still thought he was being tested.

They got it for incest?

His eyes flickered as he realized hed already been graded. Wheres Belle? Let me talk to her! His voice was a feathery whine.

Too late for that, I told him. Shes in the same ground youre standing on.

I never did nothin to you.

Yeah, you did.

He tried a feeble stab: I got people know where I am.

The Prof sneered, Motherfucker, you dont even know where you are.

You want the kid to see this? I asked the Mole.

Light played on the thick lenses of the underground mans glasses. He watched her die.

I cocked the revolver, wanting Belles father to hear the sound.

He didnt panic, kept his voice low, trying to sound reasonable. Look, if I owe, I can pay. Im a man who pays his debts.

You couldnt pay the interest on this one, I told him.

Wait! I got money stashed. I can

Save it for the Parole Board, I told him.

The hammer dropped. The man I had waited too long to kill jerked backwards off the oil drum. I fired twice more, watching his body shudder as each hollow point slug went home.

The Prof walked closer. His shotgun spoke. Both barrels.

I looked at the body of Belles father for a long, dead minute.

We bowed our heads.

Pansy howled at the dark sky, grief and hate in the same voice.

The pack went silent, waiting for its meal.

I didnt feel a thing.

* * *

Burke was born a criminal, and raised to be a better oneby me, the Prof told his other son. I trained him to be a true thief instead of some hothead gunman. But you, you was raised up to be a gentleman. Your momma wouldnt have wanted to even meet some of those give-it-up sluts you always playing around with. But you aint no baby anymore. You been a man a long time. When you and Taralyn get married, you through with what we do.

But

You could open a million oysters and never find you a perfect black pearl, boy, the Prof kept rolling. Coming as close to crossing over as I did, its like every inch of your body picks up signals, not just your eyes and ears. So I know.

Listen now: That young woman will not tolerate you doing anything but right. She mightand I say might, cant never tell with those Island girlslet you slide on church, but you want to be her man, you got to do her right. Take care of her, understand? You got to bring home the bacon without no faking.

I do not know how to

You putting up the gun, son, our father told him. Not asking, telling. This job we got now, we all gonna finish it. Our family always pays its debts. But when this ones done, you done, too. That Taralyn, she stand behind you if you gotta mop floors. But one wrong move, and she show you the door. I got her memorized, dont I, now?

Yes, sir.

You aint gonna mop no floors, the Prof assured him. I got me some ideas, but they can wait. For now, only thing you got to play is straight. Working here, she got to know a lot more than how to do this rehab stuff. The way that girls made, you cant keep her in the shade. She brings her own sunlight. Brings it wherever she walks. You want her to walk with you, you got to walk right. Be true with everything you do.

Yes, Father.

How many women you think you been with in your life? Pussy is pussy; pink dont think. Dont go to waste behind your taste, boy. Sex aint love. Ask Little Richard; that boy knows what Im talking about.

A real man, he dont raise his son to follow in his footsteps; he raises him up so he can walk further down the road than he ever did himself, even if that means the father ends up walking alone for a while, understand? Now Burke is my true son, but hes only got but one path to walk. Not you. And now its time for you to change yours.

But what if?

Dont buy no ring without you talk to your sister first, the old man said. Men dont know bout that kinda stuff. Then he closed his eyes and drifted off.

* * *

When a man pays for sex, the price rises with his age. It can be anything from a lap-dance to a marriage, but its still what the Prof always called it: cash-for-gash.

The older I get, the more I find myself back where I started. Every woman Ive ever loved, they all left, one way or another. Some dead, all gone.

Maybe, one day

But until love comes into my life again, I pay. I dont pay more; I just pay more often.

I still remember what my father told me the night before I wrapped up my last felony fall: Youngblood, listen good now. You walk out that door, I know pussys first on your list. A man in this Life dont need no wife. But never forget: when you get with a whore, never look for more. Do that, you gonna get fucked in more ways than I could ever say.

I never forgot. Whores sell things for money, and you could end up being one of those things. They may be sporting a beautifully stacked deck, but theres no ace of hearts in there.

I learned from Murphy men when I was still a kid. I learned the badger game later on. I never knock on a strangers door.

The street can be an anonymous play, but the Monster is always loose out there, and Im not just talking about AIDS.

I met one of those monsters once. A long time ago, when I was looking for someone. The car-trick hookers name was JoJo, and thinking about her still scares me. I guess shes dead by now. I wonder how many she took first.

You cant call an escort service; you could be calling the cops. You cant make appointments; you never know what will be waiting. You cant deal with Web sites or setup services. Records can get seized. Or sold.

So I stick with women I know. None of them are working girls, but none of them work for a living. I dont make dates, and I never drop in unexpected. Not fair to them, too much risk for me.

I just call. Out of the blue. My blue.

If theyre ready to go, right thenI make sure Im close by when I callthe tiles fall and the mosaic forms. They come downstairsthey never live on the ground floor, not in this cityand wait on the corner.

If they get there quick enough, and if I dont pick up on any visual dissonance while Im waiting, I go the next step.

I slide the window down, and say the right words. I have to do thatif I tell them Ill be driving a white BMW, itll be a red Chrysler that pulls to the curb. Those extra few seconds could make all the difference if the girl decided to make a call of her own.

If everythings clear, she gets in, we drive to a place she hasnt been before, and we play out our script. Different ones for different girls, but its always some version of: Im on the run from the law, an undercover FBI agentanything that explains why it always has to be come-and-go.

Then I drop them off at the opposite end of the city from where they live, with enough cab fare to fly to Aruba.

Maybe some of them buy the story, most probably dont. But even if they tell, who ever they tell, nobodys going to wait outside their place for me to come backyou cant set your alarm clock to random.

* * *

Saudi Arabia, thats our bosom buddy. So was Iran, once, remember? The shot-callers here have their own magic label-maker: Pinochet was a realist, Castros a fascist, and Vietnams a good export market.

Letting Idi Amin run a country was like making Ted Bundy warden of a womens prison. Idi Amin never sat in an electric chair, he sat on a throne. But once syphilis gets inside your brain, money cant get it out. His last years were spent in a castle, not a prison cell. A castle in Saudi Arabia.

Our government counts Uganda as a major ally in what they call a troubled area. An area close to where Mobutu used to fill the same role.

I learned two things in my life. Everythings connected. And you never want to be the connection. You know how therapists do that word-association thing? Some people, you say connection, first word that comes to their mind is sever.

I remember the Prof chuckling out loud at the whole idea of arming Americas friend-of-the-moment. Fools think, just cause they can get a snake to dance, it wont bite em the second it gets the chance.

Thats all about international alliances, not families. Still, I had to reassure Max a dozen times that Mama would never find out who was with us the night we checked out the Sheikhs fortress.

* * *

Our alliance with the third man on the roof started a few years ago, when I first came back home. We were almost down to our case money, so we started piling up cash any way we could.

Some people are fool enough to think that a shared profession makes them safe from their own kind, like the embezzler who blows his take on pump-and-dump penny stocks.

A fool is money, the Prof always said.

That first job wed done together was trickier than it looked. Disabling that traveling circus of bounty hunters was easy enough, but wed been paid to handle it ghost-styleabsolutely no-trace guaranteed. The targets had to wake up permanently discouraged, but without a clue how it had happened.

Nobody was worried about them running to the copsbounty hunters arent exactly an NYPD favorite.

Picking them out was embarrassingly easy. Four men, in two unmarked cars that were about as undercover as Britney Spears, never mind the stupid baseball caps the men wore, or the cage bars between the front and back seats.

It had taken us a couple of days to make sure they really were that lame, not just posing for some TV crew.

Once we locked on, Michelle slut-voiced an anonymous call to the bondsman. Hed figure it for the bail-jumpers wife. Her divorce lawyers would have told her shed only get to keep what the government didnt take, and if her husband didnt show up for trial

The professional man-hunters pressed buttons at random until someone buzzed them into the building. They exchanged knowing looksyeah, people who live in slums really are idiots.

If they hadnt been such pitiful amateurs, they might have wondered why the lightbulbs were all burned out in the hallway where they positioned themselves on either side of the door, getting ready to kick it in.

I guess too much TV can rot your brain.

Being highly experienced in such matters, only three of them went to the bail-jumpers door. The other one waited out back in case the bad guy tried the fire escape, a Desert Eagle dangling from his hand. Good choice; that piece is heavy enough to practice curls with, and its harder to conceal than a fluorescent brick. Naturally, the genius chose the all-chrome modelit picked up enough ambient light to sparkle in a coal bin.

That one was mine. Max and his friend took his partners.

Going in, we knew it was a three-man job, minimum. No matter how we disabled the bounty hunters, wed need a driver to remove each of their cars, plus one more to follow them to the dump site and get us back to Manhattan.

The extra man Max brought in was a stranger to me. I didnt know his name, never saw him before that night. He was an older guyI wouldnt even try to guess his agewearing some kind of mottled-shadow bodysuit under a long, cowled coat, his hands hidden somewhere inside the sleeves. A night-merging hood covered his head. I deliberately didnt make eye contact with him, but I already knew the one part Mama couldnt ever know: he was Japanese.

And now the three of us were working together again. Standing on a rooftop on the East Side just before dawn, trying to see an answer.

* * *

The cowled man gestured to Max as if I wasnt present. He spread his arms, upturned palms and a slight movement of his head indicating he had seen nothing that could keep him out of the building we had been scanning. He held up an admonishing finger, then mimed a man walkingwalking slow. Shook his head.

Max tossed some invisible objects between his hands, like a juggler.

The black-cowled man placed his own hands together, made a pillow of them, canted his head. Then he shook himself like a man coming out of a daze.

Max bowed, his eyes never leaving those of the ninja, who returned the bow to precisely the same depth. Maybe Max saw him disappear; I know I didnt.

* * *

The Profs hospital room was the perfect place for us all to meet. Weve got a guy who can get in from the top, work his way downstairs, and open the side door for us, I laid it out. But thered be no way to cover up that the place had been visited. Its just too big, with too much staff. Thered be bodies all over the place. If they got put to sleep, theyd wake up. And if they didnt

That aint the half, the Prof said, almost condescendingly, taking the idea that a ninja might know more than he did about home invasion as a personal insult. Even if Maxs boy got himself an invisibility spell, what if the phone rings while hes doing the job? Or if they got something scheduled we dont know about, like one of those ambassador meetings? Take nothing more than some FedEx driver ringing the bell to send it all straight to hell. Come on!

Pryce

Pryce might, is all you can say, son. I taught you better than that; we dont go till we know. Pryce flops, we all drop.

But its the only thing weve come up with, I argued. And even that window wont stay open long.

It is logical, the Mole threw in, looking up briefly from examining the prosthetic they were fitting the Prof for, already thinking of ways to make it work better.

Michelle exchanged a look with Clarence, silently agreeing that, for the Mole, those three words were a damn filibuster.

She never leaves? Gateman asked. If hospital security had a problem with a man rolling his wheelchair onto the elevator with a reworked 9mm Kahr nestled near his colostomy bag and a pit bull in his lap, they must have kept it to themselves.

Could be that way, Gate, I said. Shes not some rich mans playtoy; shes property. Shes probably allowed out, but no way shed ever be able to go alone.

There still has to be

Went over the options, Prof. She cant call a car service; theyd never let one past the gates. She cant even go for a walk around the grounds without protection. Even if she could sneak into that underground garage, so what? Its against the law for women to drive where she comes from; she probably doesnt even know how.

Thats a whole different set of

Whatever Michelle was going to say was chopped off by Taralyns brisk entrance. She stood by, hands on hips, eye-dueling the Prof until the old man pushed himself out of bed, gripped the walker, and propelled himself out the door.

Taralyn whirled, her eyes hitting Clarence like a two-ton electromagnet on a pile of iron shavings. I should walk with my father, he immediately said, and followed her down the corridor.

I thought only a witch could cast a spell, Gateman said, grinning.

You need to get out more, Michelle told him dryly.

* * *

You want all this done because youve got an idea?

Its not an idea, its a hypothesis, I told Pryce, echoing the Mole. So it has to be tested.

Has?

Or not, I conceded. But Ive checked every place I knew about, and a lot more I found out about. Nothing. Not even a tremble on the Web-lines. So its either your scenario or its mine.

I waited, but I could see he was waiting on me. So I said: Now, yours, I admit, it could have happened that way. I can even see how it might make sense to some sicko; power always makes sense to them. Rats are supposed to desert a sinking ship, but some rats are smart enough to know its not the ship thats going downonly the captain.

Thing is, I could never test any of that, but I know you could. In fact, I know you did, I gamble-guessed. And if your theory had proven out, you wouldnt have even shown up for this meet.

Pryce steepled his fingers.

What makes you think you could get her to?

I didnt say think, I said might. For all I know, she doesnt even speak English.

Like a native. Pryce was old-school all the wayeven liked his razors double-edged. Ill have the rest for you in forty-eight.

* * *

I was on my way back home when my cell throbbed.

What? I answered.

I fucked up, boss. Gatemans voice, street traffic in the background.

Im on my way.

* * *

I walked in the front door of the flophouse, hands empty. If something wrong was waiting inside, Gateman would have tipped me when hed calledwe all know how to do that, even if were talking with a gun at our heads.

He was behind the wooden plank, his semi-auto lying flat on the never-signed register book. Rosie ambled over to greet me. I saw she wasnt chained. Expecting company, then.

We all went into the back. The interrogation-room mirror behind the desk let us keep watch. As an extra precaution, we kept the glass dulled, even though the winos who flopped upstairs never seemed to want to look at themselves.

I just blew it, boss. Straight up.

Easy, Gate. Run it down.

It was only a couple of hours ago, he said, glancing at the large-numeral atomic clock Terry had bought for him. Almost 3:00 a.m.

I took Rosie for a walk, he continued. I figured, past midnight, even those dipshits who like to play urban pioneer would be indoors, Id have the streets to myself. So Im a few blocks overyou know, where theyre tearing down that old factory? All of a sudden, Rosies hair goes up on the back of her neck. I know something must be just around the corner, but I dont get all hyped over itany strong-arm guy working down here knows better than to fuck with me.

Only it wasnt a mugger; it was this bunch of kids. All wearing the same gear, so I figure them for some kind of club. Thats when I saw this huge pit one of them was holding. Heavy chain, spiked collar, you know the lookall that MTV crap.

The kids dog growls, and Rosie just goes for him. Boss, I aint no weakling, he said, holding up a thick forearm heavily corded with muscle. And I had my chair locked, too. But Rosie, she was still moving on them, dragging me like she was in a tractor-pull.

I tell the kids, Get back! But the one holding the dog, he screams, Get im, Tec! Their dog starts his bounce. Cocky, like it was gonna be an easy piece of work for him. I didnt have no choice, boss; he was twice Rosies size. I pulled my steel, told the punk, he drops that chain, his dogs a goner. Him fucking too.

That stops em, but just for a second. One of them, he starts movie-talking. You know, I cant shoot all of them bullshit. So I plugged him.

Fuck.

I know, he said, sorrowfully.

Nobody went nine-one-one?

I didnt total the punk, Gateman said, sounding offended and defensive at the same time. Just tore up his leg a little. They all took off then, dragging him behind. But how hard is it gonna be for them to find this place? All they gotta do is ask around about a man in a wheelchair.

I nodded.

And you know how gang kids always go for payback, boss. Gas-in-glass, thatll be it.

I nodded again. Gateman might be wrong about the Molotovalthough I didnt think he wasbut it really didnt matter. Any comeback they made wouldnt be quiet. Win or lose, I was going to end up homeless.

Wait here, I told him.

* * *

Sure, I know who you talking about, bro. Call themselves Los Diablos, Jester said, grinning as only a man whod seen the real thing could. They got a little clubhouse in the basement of that building thats coming down, only a few blocks away. Didnt know they had themselves a bulldog, though.

They called him Tec. Probably short for Tec-9. Either they werent carrying when Gateman threw down on them, or they didnt have the stones to go for it.

Pendejos flash steel when we show, its finito, ese.

I wasnt asking

Thats my dog they got there, Jester said.

* * *

We cant hurt them, I said to Clarence. Theyve got to still be able to move when were done. You sure youre okay with this?

He fitted the silencer to his pistol, tested the trigger tension, nodded. Id reached out for him before Id left for Jesters. I knew I was doing wrong, bringing Clarence in. I knew what the Prof would say if he ever found out. Because if this gang wasnt going to listen, we were down to one option. Thats why Jester had a pickup truck waiting, its bed lined with heavy black plastic sheeting.

Four-fifteen a.m.

I went in first, a pistol in each hand. The basement was a blotch of murky darkness. You could smell humans down there, hear the muzzled sounds of marijuana-and-wine sleep.

The big pit was good. He never barked, but I could hear him charging up the stairs. When he got close enough for me to be sure, I shot him in the chest. He stumbled, shook himself, and started to rise. I shot him with my other pistol, point-blank into his thick neck.

The pit tumbled backwards down the stairs, rousing the gang. By the time they staggered themselves awake, they were bracketed inside a death triangle.

Id already pocketed the tranquilizer guns and switched to my .357. Jester had a double-barreled big-bore, cut down for close-up work; he held it in one hand as if it was weightless. Clarence played the laser-sight of his nine over each of them as I kicked the floodlight Id placed behind me into haze-filtered life.

You fucked with the wrong man, I said to the leader. I knew it had to be himhis eyes told me hed already figured out what the silencer was for, but not his next move.

He played for time. Look, man

Do not say one damn word to me, I cut him off, careful not to call him names. If I wanted him to go along, I couldnt disrespect him in front of his boys. I was on a tightrope, and my balance had to be perfect: just a man doing a job, not someone with a personal stake in any of this.

That man in the wheelchair, he has friends, I said, slow and clear. A lot of friends. Our boss, hes one of those friends. So we got our orders. The boss said it was our call, but if anything, and I mean anything, happens to his friend, it comes back on us. You know what that means. Thats why were here. We have to take something back to our boss. We can take your word, or we can take your heads. Pick one.

The leader didnt hesitate. The minute you leave, we count to a hundred and we leave, too, he said. His voice was steady; I could see why he was in charge. We leave, and we dont come back. Never. Omarhe tilted his head at one of the crewhis baby mommas in the Ravenswood projects; she do whatever he tell her. We go there tonight, start looking for another spot to set up in the morning. Its easier to score over that side of the bridge, anyway. Look, on my life, we never cross your border again, okay?

You need to watch someone die, just to be sure were not playing? I asked him.

No, man. Just say what

What you said works. Its a good plan, I told him, letting him save face. But, you understand, we gotta be sure. So well be outside. Somewhere in the dark. We can count to a hundred, too. AllI looked around, countingfive of you dont come out, anyone left behind is a corpse.

Okay. Okay, sure, he said, holding up his hands, palms facing me.

Theres three cars outside, too, I told him, holding up a cell phone. You dont all stay togetherpop!

They didnt make a sound.

I pocketed the phone, pulled out two rubber-banded packets, and tossed them on the floor. Theres five hundred cash in there, plus a dozen MetroCards. You all walk over to the subway, even if you see a cab along the way.

That one, I said, pointing at a kid with one leg wrapped in heavy rags, he has to limp, too fucking bad. You leave him behind

The leader nodded. The kid Gateman had shot nodded harder.

You stay together. You do not jump the turnstile. You do not get yourselves arrested this side of the bridge, not for anything. Got it? All right, theres just one more thing.

Backlit like we were, all they could see was the hardware.

We need your pictures, I told them. Polaroids. Just keep facing me. Its not gonna hurt; we wanted you dead, we would have done it already.

They all took the flash in the face without moving. One of them even turned sideways after the first shot.

You know why we did that, I told the leader. Our whole crews gonna have copies by tomorrow morning. And dont even think about running your mouths, ever. We can find you on Rikers even easier than we did here.

Jester walked over to the tranqed-out pit, knelt, and scooped him up with one arm, keeping his shotgun trained on the gang. Then he hoisted the pit gently over his shoulder. One punks mouth dropped open at the sight.

Whose dog is he? I asked.

He mine, a dark-skinned kid in a red tank top said, probably thinking the money Id tossed on the floor was some kind of payment.

Jester stepped forward and hooked him to the gut. The kid dropped, but he didnt pass out. The real pain wouldnt come for a while yet. Jester dropped to one knee, leaned in close. I ever hear you got yourself another pit, you gonna die real slow. He stood up, kicked the kid in the ribs, and backed away to give us cover.

You can take that one with you, too, or just leave him here, I told the leader. But when you walk into an ER once you get across the border, you better tell a real good story.

Drive-by, the leader said, smoothly. We over near the Plaza, just chillin. A bunch of white boys jump out of a Jeep, swing on us with baseball bats. Hector here gets hit in the stomach. We all running when we hear a shot, and Tony catches one in the leg.

If this was a crew that carried off its wounded, maybe their leader was the real deal. Or maybe he was just good at mathwe werent going to do one of them and let the rest just walk away.

I had counted up to ninety-one when all five stumbled out of the basement. One was limping, but still moving pretty good. The dark-skinned kid had both hands pressed to his stomach.

* * *

I was in the alley next to the flophouse, behind the wheel of my Plymouth. Gateman was inside, with Rosie. Clarence was behind the mirror.

The cellular throbbed against my chest.

They walked a long way, Terry reported. Sat together on the 1 Train until Forty-second, then they all got on the 7. I didnt

You went deeper than you needed to, I told him. Its over now. Get gone.

Rosie watched with only mild interest as I used a small sledgehammer on the cell phone. Gateman said hed take care of the disposal. Clarence went back to the hospital.

I returned the Plymouth, docked it, and then reported to Jester.

I already got a spot for this one, ese, he said, tilting his head toward the big pit, still unconscious, double-chained inside the cinderblock garage where Jester kept his office. Putting him out back would have been premeditated murder. By tomorrow, he be in good hands.

I tapped my heart with my fist. Twice.

* * *

The next morning, I entered the hospital through the service entrance, held still for the retinal scan, then punched in the numbers that would match it.

Inside, I moved past a guard. His weapon was holstered, but his palm partially covered a big red button. He was holding it down the way you do a grenade after the pins been pulled. Even if an intruder managed to slip past the scanners and put one between his eyes, his dead hand would still trigger the alarm. Instantly, the intruder would be caged. And whoever was watching the monitors would make sure the dozens of tiny jets implanted in the ceiling had gassed him into unconsciousness before signaling the capture team to move in.

The back way opened into an atrium that reached straight up to an all-glass ceiling. This was the break room for doctors and other high-ranking personnel, featuring a dozen different seating arrangements, a coffee urn that looked like it cost more than a Korean car, and a long table of fresh-baked pastries. Mini-trees in individual planters were scattered all around, each with its own auto-mist system. The floor was rubber-tiled; the walls were lined with glowing fiber-optic bands.

Nothing but the best was the message. One of them, anyway.

I had started over to the elevator when I noticed Taralyn, sitting by herself at a table in the corner. She smiled and waved. I knew it wasnt an invitation, just her natural Island politeness. I returned the courtesy and was about to move off when I spotted a medium-height white man strolling over toward her.

His suit coat was open, displaying a shoulder holster. Regulation haircut, gym-sculpted body. He moved with the flat-footed shuffle of a man who expected people to step aside.

Good luck with that, I thought to myself, figuring a woman like Taralyn must have years of experience repelling advances. But then I caught a glimpse of Clarence, his back to the scene, waiting patiently for an opening near the coffee urn, a cup and saucer in each hand.

I immediately flowed into a change of direction. Thunder was booming, and our house needed a lightning rod. I moved the way Max had taught me, covering the ground quickly without looking like I was in a hurry. I got there too late to hear whatever the bodybuilder had already said, but I heard Taralyns response real clear: No, thank you. I am waiting for someone.

The bodybuilders hearing wasnt as good as mine. He picked up a metal chair with one finger, spun it expertly so it reversed, then straddled it and sat down across from Taralyn.

Maybe Ill just wait with you, he said. His voice was too thin for his bodysteroids will do that.

Please Taralyn started to say. But by then I was in position behind him. I leaned forward and spoke in a barely audible voice, adding a tinge of anxiety to assure him that I was no kind of threat. The young lady is waiting for her fiancé, I told the tough guy. You see?

He turned his head to look at me, not deigning to twist his whole body, letting his eyes send out the warning. Just in case I was too slow to understand, he popped the biceps of his suit jacket, adding an exclamation point to his unspoken threat.

Yeah, I see. And I think Ill wait along with her, he said. That all right with you, pal?

Not really, I said, apologetically, as I slid my right thumb and index finger deep into his wedged trapezius. I like bodybuilders; all that definition makes it easier to place the nerve blocks.

This young ladys fiancé, hes one of those crazy-jealous guys, I said, very quietly. You know the kind I mean, right? And hes over getting her some coffee, so this is kind of an awkward situation. How about if you and me find another spot?

Despite the macho nonsense, this guy was the real thinghe had the kind of pain tolerance you dont get from lifting weights. Sounds like a plan, he gritted out.

Great! I said, dropping my left hand inside his jacket, just above the hipbone. Lets go.

He stood up, slipping out of the nerve block on his neck as he did. But there was nothing he could do about my left hand without taking all kinds of risks. That wouldnt stop him in the street, but in this place, the risk was much higherI was an invited guest, and he didnt know who had issued the invitation.

We passed Clarence on his way back to Taralyns tableI dont think he even noticed us.

When the elevator car arrived, I stepped inside, releasing the bodybuilder and turning to face him as I backed to the wall. I wasnt surprised when he followed.

Whore you? was all he said.

Someone who just saved your life, I told him.

Is that right?

I didnt answer.

* * *

How much longer? I asked the Prof.

Damned if I know, Schoolboy. I aint in no hurry. Only help I could be to you on this job is what Im already doing, anyway.

It wont always

Yeah, itll be different, the old man said. Different way, but the same play. Soon as I finish learning how to use that new leg, Im out of here. You tuned in?

Youll be ready to go when you can walk out.

That clue is true. Only a man whos been behind the wall can feel it all. Clarence, he thinks its about medicinenot that hes paying attention to anything but that girl he gonna marry.

Hes asked her?

Remember what I told you when you knew you were going to the Double K that first time? he asked. He was using prison-speak for Kangaroo Kourt, the Disciplinary Committee that got to decide if the ticket some hack wrote on you was valid. It always was; the only thing that mattered was what it was going to cost you.

Even in the bing, the canaries still sing, I answered him.

A grin transformed the old mans face. You dont forget nothing, do you, son? You get written up, you know you gonna get some time in the holeaint no fair allowed in jail. When we named them, we left off the last K, but you know what they say.

Im

Nigger aint a color, boy. There always be a way for them to pick us out of a crowd. Hell, back then, if you shanked some motherfucker, theyd lock you down even if they knew you didnt have no choice. But at least they always kept it in the house. Today, they actually put your ass on trial for that. I mean, take you down to the same court that sent you down.

The old con shook his head in disgust. Making your time harder, okay. But giving you more time, that is seriously wrong.

Its true, I said, remembering that first time I went before the Disciplinary Committee. The guy Id stabbed had it coming, and the guards sitting there all knew it. So, okay, they had to give me some time in the hole, but that wasnt for what Id done, it was for getting caught doing it.

You know that three-strikes bullshit they got now? the Prof said scornfully. A small-timer with two falls on his sheet dont even think about that until its all-or-nothing. Like that cop in California who got smoked cause the numbnuts who grabbed him and his partner figured they were headed for the gas chamber anyway.

You put the death penalty on kidnapping, you telling the snatch-men not to leave no witnesses. Thats why some useless junkie or a two-bit booster ends up blowing a cop away. He suddenly realizes hes going down for life-without even on a lightweight beef, so what the fuck? When you know you gonna die if you dont try, aint but one thing to do.

Hold court.

Amen.

* * *

When I stepped off the elevator, the bodybuilder was waiting for me. I stood where I was, sensing the wall behind me, hoping hed bull-rush, give me a chance to convert his energy to injury. But he closed the distance between us slowly, one near-tentative step at a time. I watched his eyes. Suddenly he stuck out his hand. Open.

I expected a bonecrusher move, so I just looked blank, giving him nothing.

Look, buddy, he said, that littlething before. I already forgot it. I hope you have, too. I wasnt trying

Do I know you? I said. Not cold, quizzical.

He blinked rapidly a couple of times, twisted his lower lip, turned his back, and walked off. I watched him leave the building, wondering if he was pumped up enough to be waiting around outside.

Thats when I glanced over at the table where Taralyn had been sitting. Pryce motioned me over.

* * *

Its hard to find good help these days, he said, as I sat down across from him. They can follow orders, but you have to use small words. Tell them to fill up the car, you have to make sure they understand the gas goes in the tank, not the backseat.

Yeah. Why stay in the closet when its got a glass door?

Pryces eyes were veiled. Its that obvious?

Whered you find him, in a skinhead compound?

Close enough.

So hes not on the books?

He thinks he is. But the kind of thinking he does

You dont care who you use, do you?

What are you, one of those bushido boys? You think killing a man with a sword is more honorable than shooting him in the back? Dead is dead. Its not the tool; its the job. You use whatever works.

Like me.

Like you. Get over yourself, Burke. You think killing a few vermin makes you an avenging angel?

Im only working for you because

Did I ask? I made an offer; you accepted it. Youre a contract man. How you get paid makes no more difference to you than how you get the job done makes to me.

Im doing what I was paid to do.

I know you are. Im the one who came to you. After no ransom demand came, I thought there must be another motive, and that youd know how to find people with that kind of motivation.

I still think I do. Only

Only my original idea was no good. So why not just go through the motions? You already got what you wanted. All you promised was to look, and I know youve been doing that.

Because you crossed the same trail?

No, he said. Because I know you. No way you dont go all-out on this one. Because you know me, too.

Fair enough, I said. Meaning his analysis, not our bargain. In our world, bargains dont have to be fair, they just have to be kept.

So why are you still working? Whats left to do, except for this crazy

First of all, Im not all done. I dropped a lot of rocks into a lot of different pools, and the circles are still radiating. I dont have high hopes, but Im playing it out until you call me off. I already told you: I dont think this is a cold-trail case, I think its a no-trail case.

Yeah. I remember. Can you run that down for me, one more time?

Because?

Because, even though I think youre insane, I dont have anything else. And I can make what you want happen. But if I do that, Ill be playing for higher stakes than I like. In fact, I dont like playing at all.

So I spent a couple of hours sitting in that atrium. Trying to convince the shape-shifter why he should step into the light long enough to cast a shadow.

* * *

Pryce wouldnt commit; said he had to think it over first. I didnt like thatthe longer we waited, the worse the odds. I needed to find a way to hedge my bet.

There was only one other group that might have what I needed, but I couldnt find them on my own. And I knew what would happen if I tried.

Let me just

No, the Mole said.

But you know what Im trying to

They dont trust you.

Dont trust me? I did plenty of jobs with them, and never once

You made trades with them, the underground man said. And you kept your part of the bargain each time, thats true.

So they know me, right?

He gave me a look I couldnt decipher. Said, What they know is what they know. What I know, that is different. They know what you did. They know what you do. I know you. They would not make such a distinction.

I closed my eyes for a minute. When I opened them, nothing had changed.

Will you ask them for me, brother?

He nodded.

* * *

Later that night, we met in his bunker. Terry and Michelle were outside, waiting their turn.

They wont do it, the Mole said.

Why not? I asked him, half angry, half puzzled.

If there was a single cockroach in your house, would you spend every penny you had on a platinum brick to crush it with?

Risk versus gain, then? No more than that?

No more than that, he affirmed.

It was worth a shot, I told him, shrugging my shoulders to show what I thought my chances had been.

The Mole turned away. He got the joke, but he didnt think it was all that funny.

* * *

Mama pointed at the space behind my booth, held up three fingers. One of the four pay phones was ringing. I could never hear any difference between them, but she could.

I picked up the receiver, said, What?

El Cańonero ha ido de nuevo a su hogar.

The line went dead.

* * *

It didnt matter how I translated the message, it all came out the same. The UGLs sniper wasnt around. Maybe hed gone jibaro, disappearing into the hills of Puerto Rico. Maybe he was in prison, or too deep underground to reach. But no maybe about one thing: he wasnt going to be doing any job for me.

Like with the Mole, even though I knew I didnt have a chance, I still had to ask. Sometimes you just have to spin the wheel, even if all the numbers but one are double-zeros.

* * *

You cant go on the market for this one, son, the Prof had told me, and I didnt argue. Assassins can always be found, if you know where to look. Most dont, which is why fools who want their spouses removed generally end up hiring undercover cops. Makes for good TV, but not very good results.

Id known that, just by asking, I was telling Pablo I couldnt call on Wesley. If the word got around that Burke was looking for a take-out artist, the whisper-stream would humand the cloak of protection my ghost brother had wrapped around me when he blew himself into mystery would disappear. Secrets are power, and trust is the path to them. But I never felt the slightest flicker of anxietyif a man like Pablo would betray me, I was too wrong about the world to want to stay in it.

I tried the Mole, but his people

Whats in it for them? the Prof cut to the core. Forget all that mad-scientist shit, Schoolboy. Two to the head, make him dead. Trick is, withoutWesley, we got to get close, and thats a high motherfucking wall to climb.

If I cant promise to

How many times you got to tell me the same thing, boy? You think I dont know when a lie wont fly? You get near enough to make that promise, you got to keep it.

* * *

Who is that, mahn? Clarence asked, transfixed by Dinah Washingtons Long John Blues as it velveted out of the speakers in my workroom.

Thats Judy Henskes mother, I told him. Listen to this. I pushed a button, and Magic Judys Oh, You Engineer came driving through. See?

II do. Yes. They both have voices you could hear in church, but they are so

Theyre women, Clarence. Not half-dressed booty-shakers who think whining three octaves on the same syllable makes them divas. Torch singers know that the best sex is always in the promise. Not any promise theyre making, the promise any man who wants to ride a champion filly like them has to keep, see?

I feel this. In my heart. Like our father says, you never lie to your prize.

Taralyn? I said, knowing Clarence wasnt making a social call.

I know only one way to get money, he said, solemnly. ButI have, I have struggled with this, Burke. I have studied on it, but I findnothing. How I can prove I am the man for her? The true man?

You loved your mother? Not questioning, opening a door.

She was my heart, the once-lost boy said.

What did she want for you?

Not what I became, he said sorrowfully, thinking of the teenager who had drifted the second his anchor had been pulled loose. Not that.

Are you a man of honor? Do you keep your word?

Burke

Would you step between your family and death?

He gave me one of those are you insane? looks.

You honor your father? And your mothers memory?

Please. You do not

Yeah, I do. Its you that doesnt, little brother. Im going to tell you a truth now. Not just make a truthful statement, tell you a truth. You know the difference?

I do.

Yeah, you do. Because you were taught, and you listened. Now listen one more time. Your father is my father. He pulled me to him as he pulled you. So hear me now: the Prof is in terrible pain. Not from bullets, from guilt.

But he has done nothing but

He loves you, Clarence. And he knows, deep in his heart, that you were never meant to be one of us.

No! You are my

Your family is always going to be your family. But look at us. Your sister, Michelle, can she step over some invisible line and turn into a citizen? Can Mama? Max? Me?

When the Prof found me, I was so crazy with hate that all I wanted was to be Wesley. You never met him, but you know who he was. Who he still is. And thats what I wanted to be.

All I ever wanted in life was to never be afraid again. I didnt want to be a good man; I wanted to be a good criminal. I didnt know the difference between earning respect and building a rep. I just wanted people to say: Dont fuck with Burke. You dont want to pay what thatll cost you. See?

The Prof pulled me off that path. We both love him the same, but I know him like you never could. One day, I dont know when it was, maybe just a short time ago, he started to count the days. He knows Im going to carry on when hes gone. Remember, You carry my name; never bring me shame? He expects that from you, too. But not the same way.

I know, Clarence said, his love-torn eyes on my one good one, telling me he truly did. My father wants me to be a man who can raise his grandchildren to beah, it does not matter. But not outlaws, as we are.

Not all of us, I reminded him. We taught Terry lots of different things, but we hope he never needs to use them. True?

It is, he admitted.

Yet what have any of us taught Flower? For her, the sky is open. Anytime she walks out the door, her mother worries for her. Immaculata is a mother, and a true mother always does this. But Immaculata, she worries aboutthings that might happen to her child, not anything her child might do.

That is not me, the Islander said, grimly. When my father found me, I was already grown. He never forbid me tolive as the rest of us do.

It wasnt the right time yet, I said.

So what would my father fear for me now? Prison? How could I fear prison, when I have seen my father laugh at death itself? You were there, Burke. You saw it, too.

He saw it coming, and he faced it, Clarence. But he didnt go looking for it.

You are saying, now there is one thing my father does fear, yes?

Yes. Not for himself, for you.

I know, Clarence said. He didnt even have to say. And I know that Taralyn is for me, Burke. This was decided in a way I will never understand. Taralyn never knew her own father, just as I. But her mother, she never strayed from her duty. Her daughter is her lifes work. If I am to be worthy of this, I must

His voice dissolved. I held my little brother against my chest as he sobbed out his mourning.

Well fix it, I promised him. Your family will make it work.

* * *

What do you want this for?

I ask you to do something for me, now I have to fucking explain it first? I said to Terry, my voice harder than it should have been.

Itsall over the map, Burke, he said, ignoring me, concentrating on the task. His fathers son. If I knew what you were looking for, I could narrow the search and

I need all of this stuff first, kid. I have anAh, its not even good enough to call it an idea, not yet. But its not for me. Its not even for thisjob we have. Its for Clarence.

Why didnt you just say?

I didnt think I had to. But I guess youve got more of your mother in you than I thought.

Fifty-fifty, the kid said, as focused on his work as a mongoose. You know what that means?

Half of each?

No, Burke. It means Im theirs. Nobody elses. Everything in me is from them. Not one hundred percent, more. Im not a total; Im a gestalt. And theres no room for anything else in that equation.

I shouldnt have run my stupid mouth, I apologized.

Thats what Moms always telling you, he said, chuckling to show I was forgiven.

* * *

New Yorks famous for its rats, but weve got the same vermin problem every other town hasthe ones we voted into office.

The reason some of those imbeciles wont let you teach evolution in school is because they dont believe theres any such thing. Why should they? If evolution was real, how could they stay that stupid for so many generations?

I guess they figure God created fossils to throw heretics off the scent.

You want proof evolution is for real, dont waste your time with fossils; just check out the New York City rat. They started out as immigrants, stowaways in some ships cargo hold. Only the survivors got to breed, and theyve been improving with every new litter. Smarter, faster, stronger. Getting ready to rule. Manhattan wouldnt be the first island they took over.

Thats where I got the idea for the mission I sent Terry on. Half of it, anyway.

* * *

Its a shadow-stat, the kid told me, a couple of days later.

Dumb it down, little bro, Gateman begged him. Rosie sat up expectantly, like she understood every word, but she didnt fool mePansy used to do the same thing.

You wanted to know how many cases of child abuse are never reported, right?

I nodded, encouraging Terry to go on.

Thats what they call a pure unknown, he explained. If you can find one, that means youre never sure you found them all, see?

Cocksucker finally beats his kid to death, thats when they find out hes been doing it for years?

Yes, Terry said to Gateman. Thats it, exactly. We know some cases of child abuse are never reported, but how many? That number could never be anything but a guess.

Right. But how many crimes committed on kids by strangers arent reported? I asked.

Absolute strangers? the kid asked. Not teachers, or coaches, or ministers, or

Total strangers, I told him. Mad-dog tree-jumpers, street snatchers, opportunity-grabbers.

Like I said, you cant measure an unknown. But you can reason logically from known data, and come up with something pretty close. He tapped some keys, looked, tapped some more. Ifif any of the type of cases you described wasnt reported, that would be no more than a micro-percentage of the total.

Sure! Thats what blew the whole missing children scam out of the fund-raising game. They got the grant money, all right. Only when the funders actually looked at the cases, they found out that almost all of them were some kind of custodial interference, not stranger abductions.

But some of them had to be

Yeah, Gate. And those still get maximum media. Nothing like a good old Amber Alert to grab the headlines, right? But how many times you see the parents go on TV and beg for whoever snatched their precious baby to return herand, later, it turns out the kids buried in their own backyard?

Somebody hurt my kid, Id never call the cops, the wheelchair-bound shooter said.

You might have to, I confronted him. Sure, if you knew who did it, you could TCB yourself. But what if it was a wrong-place, wrong-time stranger-snatch? Youd have every lawman on the planet looking. Tell me Im wrong.

Youre not, the old-school con admittedit hurt him to even think about the prospect.

Now, theres reasons why this fucking prince, or sheikh, or whatever he calls himself, theres reasons why he wouldnt go to NYPD. But he reported the kidnapping to somebody. Otherwise, the people who hired Pryce would never have known about it.

And now that we know what he was doing with that kid, I buy his story. The part about how he got taken down, I mean, not the car-switch crap. If he wanted that baby dead, all he had to do was ship him home. And no way he lets himself be humiliated, or takes a chance on some stranger stumbling over him.

So I do believe he was still coming out of whatever they spiked him with when he first told the story. Later, when he realized what kind of problems that might cause, he had the clout to make the report go away. NYPD brass probably got a real quick visit from some very heavy hitters. Words outany cop who runs his mouth about this one is a friendly-fire candidate.

So that fucking little dirtbag, he does want the baby back?

Not a doubt in my mind, I answered Gateman.

You know where the most expensive house in this whole country is? Terry piped up.

What difference does that?

Its in Colorado, the kid said, unruffled. Appraised at a hundred and forty-five million dollars. For a house. You know who owns it? Some former ambassador. Came here from Saudi Arabia.

Okay I let the thought trail off, as close to impatient as I allow myself to become.

I get it now, the kid said, proudly. Why you wanted me to look that other stuff up.

Do you?

Yeah, he said, speaking in a blend of his parents voices. For some people, a billion dollars is nothing. For others, a dime would be the world.

That aint news, Gateman said, kindly.

Its not about the fact, but what you can do with the fact, Terry said. You were right, Burke. This is the perfect way for Clarence to

He never said live in the same world Im going to out loud, but my heart heard every word.

* * *

The restaurant was closed to customers. Nothing new: Mama still has the sign the last health inspector threatened to slap on the door if she didnt pay the tax.

He was a real piece of work, that guy. Figured Mama claiming not to understand English was a ruse, so, when she wouldnt cough up, he came back and showed her he meant business.

It was only when he returned to pick up his loot that he learned she did, too. The restaurant hasnt been inspected since, but the CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE NEW YORK CITY BOARD OF HEALTH sign still goes up whenever its needed.

The big round table in the corner usually had a plastic RESERVED sign on it, tastefully ornamented with dead flies. Today, it was covered in linen you could make a bridal gown from.

All of us were there except for the Prof. You dont bring a man to his own surprise party until you finish building the gift youre going to present him with.

Its called micro-lending, I said to Clarence. In some countries, you do it right, a man goes from watching his family starve to death to watching them grow up. Grow up into more than he ever dreamed they could.

Were not talking about Welfare, honey, Michelle assured him, patting his hand. This isnt charity; its a bridge to another life. Nobody has to trade their dignity for food. No begging, no ass-kissing, no soup-kitchen religion.

It aint sharking, either, Gateman added. Paying back a loan, thats nothing but showing the guy who fronted you the coin that he was right to trust you in the first place.

I cannot just travel around the world looking for

Come on, Clarence; you know what a susu is.

That is different, mahn. A susu is no loan. All contribute, every month. Then, when your turn comes, you

Every group that comes here has some kind of way to do that, I told him. You think its only people from the Islands? The Koreans do the same thing. So do the Greeks. Its not about where you come from; its about why you came.

Im not talking about illegals in sweatshops, working off their bonds; Im talking about people who came here to stay here. What do they all want? Same thing anyone else wants: something of their own.

So they work. You know what a Jamaican woman calls a man with two jobs?

Lazy, Clarence said, grinning.

Yeah. Some people come here with skills they never get to use; some people are born here, and they teach themselves. After a while, they got everything they need to make a go of working for themselves, except for

Max pulled a wad of cash out of somewhere, dropped it on the table between us.

Right, I echoed. But whatre they going to do, get an SBA loan? Not for the kind of businesses Im talking about.

I thought you were

Not crime, I cut him off. Remember where you lived before you found the Prof? That neighborhood, I mean?

Of course, mahn.

You always loved that Rover of yours, right? But when you needed work done on it, you never brought it to some certified mechanic in a fancy shop, did you? Even when you finally had the money to take it anywhere you wanted, you stayed close to home. How come? Because you knew guys who could make a dead car get up and walk, am I right? Word-of-mouth beats the Yellow Pages, every time.

This is true, but

Thats the way it is, all over, I said. Say you want some barbecue, okay? You know the best joint might not even have a sign on the door. Electricians, plumbers, carpentersanything people need doing, theres somebody knows how to do it. Do it good. They make their living because word gets around. Yes?

Ah. Yes, we always have our own

And what about the craftsmen? I overtalked him. Theres men who can make miracles with their hands, build you a bookcase you could sell on Fifth Avenue for a fortune. But the only wood theyll ever touch is the broom they push in some ware-house. This citys full of silversmiths who scrub toilets. Women who could make you a copy of a designer gown from a damn picture, no patternand youd never be able to tell it from the original. But the only sewing machine theyll ever see is in a sweatshop. You got gardeners who could grow lemon trees on concrete, but theyll never have any land to do it on. Right or wrong?

This is all truth. But how could I?

My girlfriend Alitha, she found herself a man with substantial assets, Michelle said, touching the Islanders sleeve. Now, she can get her hair done at one of those places thatll lick your feet while they paint your toenails. But shes still not letting anyone but Miss Jasmine touch her hair.

Clarence just looked puzzled.

Alithas a black girl, Michelle explained. Where shes from, Miss Jasmine is famous. She doesnt have a shop; you have to sit in her kitchen while she works. But, like your father always says, when you want magic, you go wherever the magician is.

Yes, Clarence said, gravely. The man who works on my carhe is a genius. I would never think of allowing anyone else to touch my treasure. You are saying, if Miss Jasmine had her own shop

Damn, kid. If you cleared leather as quick as you think, those fancy suits of yours would look like Swiss cheese by now, Gateman told him.

Oh, stop that! Michelle scolded. Any kid can get all speedy; it takes a grown man to know when to take his time. Especially with something real important.

Gateman blushed at Michelles triple-entendre. Thats my baby sister. She gave up a lot of things when she chose the Mole, but making macramé out of men wasnt one of them.

She used to do surgery, too. I still remember her, back when we were runaway kids. A little tranny, way south of a hundred pounds, back against an alley wall, facing a quarter-ton rough-off artist. He had a bicycle chain; she had her straight razor. You hungry? she hissed at him. Come on, fatso! I got your diet, right here.

The tough guy hadnt seen me in the shadowsif he had moved on her, Id have planted my switchblade deep into his liver by the second step. But Michelle was so raged-up she couldnt see anything but a pig who thought he could muscle her onto her knees. He wanted a quick piece, but Michelle wanted a piece of him.

I came back to business, said: What did you think, our big plan was for you to be some bodeguero? Youre not going to be building a little shop, Clarence; youre going to be building a network. Instead of collecting interest on the loans, youll own a piece of every business you finance. A little piece, but therell be a lot of those. Youre going to have scouts all over the city. They know who to look for; the rest is up to you.

Money-lending is a dirty business, the Mole said.

We all looked at him, waiting for more, as if we didnt know better.

What Mole means is Michelle began, before a look from the father of her child made her blush.

That is why I would not be lending, I would be investing, yes? Clarence said, dubiously. But there would have to be a source of the money I invest in any legitimate business. How would I explain?

For government, very easy. Mama spoke for the first time. You own little buildingmaybe eight apartments. Plenty equity. Rents pay mortgage, leave plenty income. You use that money smart. Maybe buy special jade pieces. Some collectors, they pay big money. They tell government how much they pay. Tell insurance company even more.

This is Clarence struggled for the words he needed. But how could I do such things? Even if we could find this baby, Pryce would owe us nothing. What we are doing now, that is not earning; it is working off our own debt.

You do what Burke tell you, build, how you say, network? Then you have cash, yes? Mama asked.

But you have to start with cash, Mama. I cannot

Cash goes in bank. Not like our bank, one of theirs. Pay taxes, everything.

Clarence nodded, but confusion was all over his face.

Mama tapped a long crimson fingernail against a glass to get our attention. Americans always say stupid things like they saying smart things. Money not grow on trees. Then why money always have roots?

Yes, Mama, the young man said, choosing his words carefully. But an apartment building, that cannot exist only on paper.

Mama smiled, said, On this paper, and placed an official-looking document on the tablecloth in front of him.

Clarence picked it up, handed it to Michelle. She glanced at it, then passed it around the table. It was the deed to a building a few blocks from where we had gathered.

Wedding present, Mama said.

Michelle started to cry. Clarence embraced her. Gratefully, so his own tears wouldnt show.

We all managed to look somewhere else.

But we all saw the same thing.

* * *

How many of those do you have? I asked Mama, after all the others had left.

Buildings? she asked, innocently sipping her soup.

Cut it, Mama. I read that deed. It had Clarences name on it.

So?

So it had a date, too. On paper, hes been collecting rents, paying taxes, making repairs, the whole dealfor years. Thats a CPAs work. Clarence never knew any of this, which means there has to be a bank account in his name around somewhere, too.

So? she said, again.

You have property for all of us, dont you?

Only for children.

Children? Thats not you, Mama. You dont mean children, do you? You mean grandchildren, right? How long has Flower owned a building?

Day born, she said, calmly, as if no other possibility could exist.

Yeah. And Terry?

Day born, she repeated, patient with a slow learner like me. But I wasnt that slow: born for Terry meant the day he came to Michelle and the Mole.

You never said a word. None of them know, do they?

She gave me an are you actually that stupid? look that women have been giving men since Adam bit the apple.

And their parents, they dont know, either?

I got the same look.

Because your own childrenlike me and Maxthey cant own anything that has to be registered, I said, feeling it hit me then. Hit me deep. What could a man like me ever own? I dont even have a name. Neither does the Mole. Or Michelle.

It must have shown on my face. You feel bad? she asked.

No, Mama.

You think maybe I dont?

You insult me, I told her, just short of angry. Only her eyes stopped me from saying anything more. In all the years Id known her, Id never seen them go liquid before that moment.

* * *

An attack-trained dog isnt a guard dog. Just about any dog will protect its own territory. If a puppy grows up associating you with its only source of food, if youre the one who plays with her, walks her, sleeps next to her, cuddles herthatll usually do it. Depending on her personality, the dog might snap at anyone who gets too close to you, even a friend. But shes almost a sure bet to really rip anyone she thinks is hurting you.

Some bark at anyone who comes near your house, but thats a watchdog, not a protector. A burglar alarm might let you know someones coming; it wont do anything to stop them.

A true attack dog is one who can do no-provocation work. You sit down across from some guy, patting your dog as you talk things over. The dog lies next to you, looks half asleep. No threat displays, no growling, no showing teeth. My Pansy looked so dumb and friendly that strangers would walk right up to her. And Id let them. But if I said the right word, or made the right gesture, shed turn a guy into scraps of flesh even if shed just licked his hand.

When you think of an attack doga real onethink of a chain-saw covered in fur, with a remote-control on-off switch only one person can push.

A lot of trainers use agitators, usually drunks willing to dress up in protective gear and taunt a dog until it goes for them. You make sure the dog always wins, build his confidence. Sounds good, but its really sending all the wrong messages. You dont want your dog thinking that the smell of booze is a signal to hit. Or that biting a sleeve is how to bring a man down.

That kind of stuff is good enough for K-9s, but were not cops. Where we live, we dont use dogs to run down escapees. And we dont deal with gunmen by telling them to fucking Freeze! either.

We trained Rosie using some of Maxs advanced students; they had the speed and agility we needed. Theres no scholarships at Maxs dojo. You pay your own way, every way.

We had to poison-proof her, too. That turned out to be one hell of a job; she was used to tearing into food without asking questions.

We couldnt train her out of her natural tendency to nail any stranger she decided was encroaching, so we taught her the signal for friend, instead.

I love this, boss. Its like learning all this new stuff and watching her have fun at the same time.

She loves it, too, Gate. Thats the trick to training any dog: make it fun. Thats why we always keep the sessions short. Rosie pays attention because she wants to, not because we make her. Thats why you always end a session with her getting it right, see?

Yeah! And she likes to just hang out, too, bro. I swear to God, that little girl sees something on TV she dont like, she lets me know.

The only thing Im worried about

I got that covered, boss. Look what Terry hooked up for me.

The chain he had in place behind the counter was now attached to a padded circle of steel that was screwed into a concrete block about the size of a small sofa. Gateman called, and Rosie trotted over. She waited patiently as he hooked her up.

She cant get past the desk now, Gateman told me. Unless I press this little gadget. He held up a box the size of a cigarette pack, with a button that took up most of its surface. Watch.

The steel-circle collar popped off, and Rosie was free.

Got another of those buttons under the counter, one on the TV remote, another by the light switch.

So anytime?

Oh, hell yes, bro. Look, we cant do this friend thing with every rummy who staggers in here, right? The way it works now is, the door opens, Rosie lunges, but that chain holds her. We dont want her killing some wino, but it dont hurt that word gets around she might be behind the counter with me, either. And if I ever need her to really do some work, well

Its perfect.

It fucking is, boss. Terry even has it set so that the smoke alarm pops that collar off, toojust in case. Rosie, shes the most amazing thing I ever seen. Looks like such a pretty little pup you want to pick her up and give her a kiss. But she could be munching on your guts before you even knew what hit you.

And some women got the nerve to think theyre real bitches, I said.

We tapped fists, and Rosie followed me upstairs to our home.

* * *

I didnt use the red circle for this one. The answer wasnt buried that deep. I had it somewhere, if I could only

You have to let it just float over you, I told Rosie. Like balloons drifting by. When you see the one you need, you reach up and grab it. But you cant be jumping around, understand? The balloons only float over you when the air is very still: you try chasing them, you cause the windand they sail away, out of your grasp.

I patted the couch. When Rosie jumped up and curled next to me, I went into the semi-trance I needed.

* * *

They always get the idea from somewhere floated by, but I never reached for it. I knew the taproot; knew I was looking for people who do things theyve done before. Rapists rape; thats what rapists do. But the rapist who only targets blondes in red dresses and high heels is playing out some script. The general impulse is always there, but it takes a specific image to fire his synapses before he acts.

Porn can do that for some of themnarrow the general impulse into some specific imagery. Once that happens, its that image they look for when theyre hunting.

I never dealt with a sex-torture freak who didnt have a porn collection of some kind. Some even created their own.

* * *

The scrawny kid sported shoe-polish-black spiked hair with a green streak on one side, a leather vest, and subtle eyeliner. He was behind the counter inside the filthy-window storefront, thumbing through a manga porno-comic. He didnt know me, but when I walked into the computer-repair shop empty-handed, he knew I was a cash customer. And I knew there wouldnt be a security camera anywhere in the place.

He looked across at me, waiting.

An armadillo walks into a disco, I said. He sees the big mirrored ball, but its too high for him to reach, so he walks out. Get it?

No. Whats it supposed to mean?

Nothing, I told the Goth-geared slug.

Huh?

Zen.

Oh. Yeah, I get it.

Nothing means something, because nothing means nothing. You with me?

Everything has a meaning, he said, nodding sagely.

Yeah. But not the same meaning to everyone. Some people might even think theres enough work to keep a computer repair shop afloat, even though its cheaper to buy a new one than get an old one fixed.

A fear-glint showed in his eyes. Too soon. I brought him back to where hed feel like an insider, not a target:

Some people, I tell them I got a friends whos going to go all Shaolin Cowboy on their ass, they wouldnt even know what I was talking about.

What friend? he started to say, as Max materialized next to me.

This is Max the Silent, I told him. You see how he got his name? Now, I just let you in on a secret of mine, how about you let me in on one of yours?

He was a lot smarter than he looked. Or played. Kill the lights, he said. That means were not open. Then he led us into a back room, down the stairs, and into what looked like storage space.

As we watched, he showed us everything they had for sale, all the time repeating that he was only a clerk, a functionary who filled orders someone else gave him. I dont even look at that stuff, man.

It took almost half an hour for me to accept that he didnt have any of the Sheikhs training program on a for-sale CD.

I didnt bother to tell him to keep our little discussion to himself.

* * *

I couldnt check out every porno shop in the citythat would take an army and a year. Besides, its not like the dull-eyed piles of jaundiced flesh who sat next to the cash registers actually knew the contents of every DVD on the shelvesthats what the packaging is for.

The Internet would have them all, anyway. And if it was out there, Clarence would find it.

You want me to search for this?

Yeah, I told him. Remember what Terry taught you? The narrower the parameters, the easier the search. What could be narrower than these?

I will do it, mahn. But

He didnt have to say it aloud.

* * *

I didnt expect Clarence to come up with anything. Not because the scene I told him to search for would be too repulsiveI dont think thats actually possible, anymorebut because thered be too small a market for it.

People think porn started with under-the-counter magazines, but its been around ever since our species developed opposable thumbs. Theres cave paintings of rape. And there was rape before there were paintings.

Jerkoff artists arent the only market for pornographypoliticians buy it too. The Meese Commission started a whole porno turns men into rapists industry. And now the hucksters who have the public believing kiddie porn started with the Internet are raking in federal grants to find it.

Always the sameyou never know if theyre stupid, crooked, or both.

* * *

When you want the purest information, you need the most neutral possible source. Finding one, thats the trick.

Especially today, when theres no such thing as actual news, only press releases and commentators who go total Rashomon on every story until it all turns into white noise. If you get tired of blah-blah, you can always dial up some blog-blog. Fabricating stories is the new frontier of freedom of the press. Anyone can play, and nobody paysexcept the targets.

But if you actually want neutral, you go to the total obsessives. Theyre so hyper-honed that theres no room for any agenda besides their own. But you have to hit that agenda on your first pass; their kind dont accept social callsthey wouldnt even get the concept.

Reform School Girl, I said into the phone. By Felice Swados.

Cover? The other mans voice was just this side of uninterested.

Its a photo, not a drawing. A weird size, too.

Look for the year, he instructed.

Nineteen forty-eight, it says.

What else? It would be on the

Diversity Romance Novel #1.

Grade? he said, now trying to sound calm.

Your job, not mine.

Agreed. But I need some indication of

Looks like it was never read.

Really? The whole cellular network shuddered at the intensity of the obsessives prayer-question. Hed gone from mildly bored to so deeply hooked that he even bypassed the bargaining ritual.

Im not asking you to take my word for it, I told him.

Bagged and boarded?

Might have been. Not now.

You havent?

How else could I give you the info I just did? But I never touched it with my hands. Cotton gloves only.

Listen, he said, in the same tone a bomb-diffusion expert uses when he has to guide a rookie over the phone. I want you to open it. Gently. Just enough to read page numbers. Can you do that?

Sure.

Is there a page three and four?

IYeah, there is.

I have to see it.

He wasnt kidding about thatthe cell phone in my hand was hot, like Id been on the battery for hours.

Name a

Can you bring it over now?

* * *

I pulled the Plymouth up to the gate and waited. There was a speaker with an inset communicator button standing on an aluminum pole, but I didnt bother touching it. I knew the security cameras were on me, so I just got out of the car and stood there in plain sight.

The gate swung open. I got back in my car and pulled up to the one-story warehouse. There were a couple of dozen parking slots marked in fresh yellow stripes, all unoccupied. I backed into one of them, plucked the silk-wrapped package carefully off the front seat, and walked up to the door.

The steel-ingot dead bolt retracted with a sound like someone had just jacked a spent round out of an elephant rifle. I turned the handle, stepped inside.

A big guy with all the movie-cued insigniashaved head, forearms tattooed with Asian-looking symbols, wife-beater shirtstarted to strike a pose. Then his remaining brain cells kicked in, and he remembered why his visual scan had been enough to get me through the gate. Id been there before. With Max.

I knew what he was remembering. That first time, the poseur had pointed at Max, jerked his thumb, told me, Just you, pal. Your friend waits outside.

Save it for when you work the door at one of those velvet-rope clubs, I told him.

You talk pretty tough for such a

He never saw Max move, but theres nothing like a locked-in choke to stifle a conversation.

Max was back standing next to me before the fool hit the floor. He wasnt unconsciousdepriving his brain of oxygen wouldnt have any major effectbut he wasnt interested in getting up, either.

This time, Id come alone. But the guard would have asked around. So hed know Max hadnt been hired help; he was family. My family.

I walked past him like he was furniture, went through another door, and stepped into an open space about the size of an airplane hangar. A temperature-controlled, ionized-air, dust-free airplane hangar.

It looked like the worlds biggest bookstore. Aisle after aisle of modular shelving, all custom-made out of some space-age material, with adjustable slotting for each individual book. All paperbacks. I didnt know why the deranged human who had all this built wasnt interested in hardcovers, and I wasnt deranged enough to ask.

He stood up as I entered, walked over to where I was standing. A normal-looking guy, wearing a cleaned-and-pressed blue shirt with a button-down collar, no tie, sharply creased chinos, and a brown open-weave belt. The leather buckle matched the orthopedic loafers on his feet.

Bring it over to the examination table was all he said.

As I put down the package, he flicked a string of dangling baby-spots into life. I knew they each housed one of those sunlight bulbs; he could vary the illumination with a rheostat, and even adjust the distance from each bulb to the table.

I stepped away, letting him do his thing. He barely bothered with the magnifying glass, relying on his fingers and his nose.

A true first, he finally pronounced.

Youre the master, I said.

How much do you?

I cut off his question by stepping away and starting to stroll the aisles. Everything was labeled, sub-labeled, cross-labeled, and color-codedsome in colors I never knew existed.

He followed, knowing I was going to ask him something. I never wondered if he ever thought about why I asked him questions. I knew hed always answer, either because he knew that it was my price for something he needed worse than any junkie needs a fix, or maybe because he actually liked talking about his collection.

Worm Noir? I asked, pointing at the slotted label above a whole aisle of books.

Thats a subset, he explained. Noir itself is a concept, not a genre. Similar to hard-boiled. Thats supposed to be a genre, too. Like, say, western or romance. But thats not correct; in fact, it causes overlapping, he said, clearly offended by the concept. A western could certainly be hard-boiled, for example. And noir could be anything from sci-fi to true crime.

Worm noir is aboutworms?

No, he said, patiently. Its a field unto itself. Some are pure pastiche, some grossly imitative to the point of plagiarism, but, in general, worm noir is the kind of work that calls itself noir, do you understand?

Because if it didnt?

It would be called what it is, he said. Not making a judgment, a scientist identifying a species. Some form of simpleminded garbage, with various conventions splattered throughout. Impossible to characterize except as garbageand that term is an adjective, not a classification.

He took a breath, made sure I was paying attention, then said: To qualify, worm noir must be part of the pantheon of the certifiably untalented. It has a certainfraudulence about it, a distinctive odor. And all its authors seem to have followed the same path to publication.

Im not sure I

How could a sheep walk the mean streets alone? he said, as if dissecting an oxymoron. What their herd produces is nothing but recycling. Out of anyone elses mouth, that would have been disdainful sarcasm, but his voice was as judgment-free as the Dewey Decimal System he had modified for his own purposes.

I kept strolling around, looking. He knew I was patient enough to keep this up all day. And I knew he wasnt.

What are you looking for? he finally blurted out.

Porn, I told him. The most expensive record album ever sold had been the copy of John Lennons Double Fantasy hed autographed to Mark David Chapman. But if this guy had been into record albums, all he would have cared about was the condition; his obsession was collecting, not contents. So I wasnt surprised when he simply asked me, Hard or soft? like a salesman asking what size jacket I wore.

Hard, I guess, I said, not really sure what he meant.

He led me over to a corner section. Porn writing is how many fine authors began their careersusing pseudonyms, of course, he said, as if disclaiming any such association on their behalf. But the market for it dried up decades ago.

Yeah?

Oh, absolutely. I am referring to porn qua porn, not its gratuitous insertion into another genre. The entries from the Fifties and the Sixties never professed literary merit; they prided themselves on delivering a product. A conventional bookstore would not carry them, but there were stores which sold nothing but. And did quite well at it, too.

Interestingly enough, while covers are usually the sine qua non of value to paperback collectors, the cover was rarely a factor to the original consumers of this material. For them, the value was all inside. They bought the books to read them, he said, as if that was a clear indication of mental illness.

I shifted to a respectful Im all ears posture, said nothing.

As Im sure you can envision, he went on, permitting himself a delicate smile, the Internet has utterly destroyed that market.

I had to shore up the levee quick; this guy could spill over at any second. I understand, I said. Now, some of the covers you showed me one time

Those were subtle references, he corrected me. Bondage covers, for example, were always presented as plot-relevant. Damsel-in-distress kind of thing. The pulps were actually more graphic in that area. The only pornography that still survives in current form is either literary or visual. Some comic books, for example, are illustrating what it would be illegal to photograph.

He checked to see if I was still paying attention. Satisfied, he resumed the lecture: The pornography in fiction today is always called something else. Like the plain brown wrapper they used to mail these in. His hand swept the shelves, leaving no doubt about what he was referring to.

I noticed his voice was devoid of disappointment. None of this mattered to him. He didnt want more product produced; his only need was to acquire all of it that existed.

I scanned the category labels. And the meticulously subdivided ones. No simple Incest here: Daddy-Daughter was positioned next to Mother-Son, with Father-Son and Mother-Daughter ranked below.

Apparently, he didnt like Kiddie Porn as a category name, but he left the Sibling, Cousin, and Uncle/Aunt stuff on clearly separated shelving. He hadnt labeled any of it Incest Between Consenting Adults, but his obsession demanded total obedience: every book had to be in its rightful place.

I moved past every fetish known to humanity, including some that required non-humans for completion, but nothing jumped out at me.

If you could give me some idea

How he managed to actually read enough of all these books to set up his insanely complex system Ill never know, especially when he didnt like to physically touch any of the rarer ones, but I knew he never faked knowledge. So I said: Im looking for a plot where a guy has sex with womennot romantic sex; with prostitutes, or even rapeand brings his son along to watch, so he can teach the kid how to do it.

Were in the wrong section, he said.

* * *

Here, he pronounced, a couple of minutes later. The delay wasnt caused by the search; wed had a lot of ground to cover to reach the area he wanted.

I took the paperback from him. Black cover framing a window, backlit, shades mostly drawn, but pulled up enough to show a mans hands, clasped at the wrist, holding some kind of small club. The man was already inside, waiting. I glanced at the title: The Shoemaker. Didnt ring any bells.

Joseph Kallinger, the obsessive told me. Serial sex-killer. Among other things. Check the author.

Flora Rheta Schreiber?

Yes, he said, sounding vaguely disappointed. She was the author of Sybil.

So this Kallinger was a multiple?

He made a gesture I couldnt translate. I catalogue them as any library would. If the publisher calls it non-fiction, then so be it. The operative word in true crime is crime, not true. Some are later exposed as fraudsI have those separately shelvedsome are merely suspected of falsification, but never conclusively proven. And others, of course, are actual journalistic accounts.

Okay. But whats so special about this one?

Kallinger took his son along with him on many of hiscrimes. Sex crimes.

I kept my voice calm, asked: This paperback youre holding, it was a big hit?

I couldnt say. Best-seller is a meaningless term. There is no way to know how many copies of Pimp: The Story of My Life by Iceberg Slim actually sold. It was perhaps the seminal outsider novel, and has never gone out of print. But why would the publisher, who, presumably, would owe a royalty on each sale, announce sales figures? I have several copies that dont even indicate which printing they were.

This particular copy, he went on, opening The Shoemaker quickly, then handing it to me, is a ninth printing. By the Eighties, that had no special meaning. The paperback market was believed to be skyrocketing, but it was actually peaking, nearing the top of a parabola. This one was no Sybil, thats for sure.

Meaning no movie, I guessed.

Anything else? I asked him.

Youve been looking in the wrong place all along, he said. I dont mean forwhatever youre doing. I mean youre missing the intersection.

I looked confused. It wasnt an act.

Why do you think I need multiple copies of some books? he asked, going all Socratic on me.

So you have extras to trade for stuff you want?

Of course, he said, the way you speak to anyone stating the blatantly obvious. But theres a more important reason. Remember what I said about overlap? Here, look at this one, he said, handing me a pristine copy of The Indiana Torture Slaying.

I knew better than to remove the book from its protective housing, so I just scanned the cover. It showed a photo of a young girl next to one of a grown woman who looked evil enough for Leni Riefenstahl to worship in one of her documentaries.

The subtitle was Sylvia Likens Ordeal and Death. The cover promised all the sleazy details inside, including sadism that shocked the nation.

Published in 1966, he said.

Written by John Dean, I read aloud. Not the same?

No. In fact, the person who wrote this changed his name after Watergate.

What am I missing? I asked.

The publisher, he said, pleased at my admission. Bee-Line Books was, essentially, a porno house in that same era I showed you before. Notice the price?

Seventy-five cents.

Yes. Now, lets go over here.

He found what he wanted in seconds. Handed it over. Shipboard Stud by David Key. The cover was about what youd expect.

David Key was most likely a house name, he said. But it was published around the same time, also by Bee-Line. Note the price.

Ninety-five.

Keep that in mind, he said, and took off again. He found the spot he wanted, pulled out a new-looking copy of Doomsday Mission. This was by Harry Whittington, one of the all-time great paperback-original writers. See the price? Sixty cents. Year published? Nineteen sixty-seven. And look at this one: Somebodys Done For, the last book from the immortal David Goodis. Also 1967. And also sixty cents.

So, back then, porn cost more than regular paperbacks?

Significantly. Dont think in terms of nickels and dimes; think of the percentage difference between sixty and ninety-fiveand then multiply by, say, a few hundred thousandper title! But lets go back to Bee-Line.

I followed behind him, thinking he must put in an easy ten miles a day.

When we returned to the True Crime section, he wordlessly handed me The Coppolino Murder Trial by Leonard Katz.

Bee-Line, I said, to show Id been paying attention. Ninety-five cents.

Nineteen sixty-seven, he replied. Have you ever been inside one of their places?

I knew who he was asking aboutand I had been inside lots of their places. A furnished room, the basement of a tract house, a prison cellI nodded my head yes.

Whats on their shelves?

I nodded again, thinking this was maybe the first time in his life that the obsessed man had ever asked a question about books that had nothing to do with collecting.

But that thought was replaced by what Id just learned. Even if I got lucky and found the why of that sheikhs freakish home-schooling, it wouldnt get me any closer to the reason his student had been snatched. I appreciate your time, I told the lunatic.

As I appreciate you bringing me the book. What are you asking?

Token of respect, I said.

Respect for?

What you taught me, I answered, watching for the tell.

While he was making up his mind about what to say, I had plenty of time to see the truth.

* * *

Driving back, my mind was recalibrating the pattern-recognition software that self-activates whenever Im tracking. I could feel this new element downloading. The next time the cops were looking for a Green River Killer typeand I knew they would be, soon enoughthey should be looking for books.

Id been in a Wal-Mart once. I noticed they were real Christian-agenda about what books they allowed on their fiction shelves, but their True Crime section was exempt from that rulesex-torture titles were the clear favorite.

Wheres a serial killer going to shop for his tools? Some little hardware store that might remember a guy who keeps running out of duct tape? Or a big, anonymous joint with ever-changing personnel that sells everything from shampoo to dog food? Especially a store a lot more worried about the government finding out who its subcontractor hired to clean up after closing time than what its customers buy.

The national chains make sure every purchase goes into their computers. Collecting peoples personal information is maybe the most lucrative business of allask Google. And I bet, if a certain government agency made the request, it might be allowed to run a scan for habitual purchasers of a certain kind of paperback. Especially if that same agency had enough juice to tell the Labor Department to look the other way.

Theres one sure thing about serial killersevery ones a repeat customer.

Telling Pryce might get that info into the right hands. But Pryce was programmed for distrust. He could be dying of cancer, but if I offered him a no-charge cure, hed spit out the pill.

* * *

I hoped that book on Kallinger might show me a parallel, but it didnt come close. Yeah, he had brought his boy along with him, all right, but that kid was no baby; he was a teen. Kallinger himself had died a mystery. In prison.

I wasnt all that surprised. Facts dont change beliefs; facts get interpreted to fit those beliefs, and Im not just talking about sadists who use the Bible says to justify everything from beating children to forcing them to marry men old enough to be their grandfathers. If you get to write the definitions, you control a lot more than the dictionary. You dont have to justify Iraq to people who believe supporting our boys means sending their parents condolence cards.

Hank Ballard was a bluesman in disguise. Annie Had a Baby was the truth. But his biggest hit was The Twist. And he wasnt the singer.

Michelle once showed me something shed printed off some Internet encyclopedia. It was this heated discussion about whether some woman had been a warrior against sexual exploitation or a self-promoting fraud. One poster whose favorite word seemed to be FemiNazi said the womans claim of having been raped had to be a lie, since she was a grossly obese, truly ugly-looking individual. My little sister was fuming. Why doesnt someone tell that low-watt limp-dick about the Boston Strangler? Thatd shut his nasty mouth, she hissed.

No, it wouldnt, honey, Id told her. Sure, everyone knows the Strangler targeted old ladies, but the whole DeSalvo story was hype. With all those rape-murders, the law had to come up with something or the press would keep crucifying them. So they got together and cooked up an everybody-wins scenario. DeSalvo wasnt the Strangler, but his confession solved a lot of problems for a lot of people. Remember, he was never tried for any of those crimeshe was already going down for life on other stuff.

But youre right; theres an entire porn industry based on preferences. Theres guys walking around who jerk off to photos of four-hundred-pound women. Or raped grandmothers. Never mind the double-amputee, or conjoined twins orYou know what Im talking about.

And anyone whos done time with them knows theres power-freaks prowling every night. Drive one of them to the finest whorehouse in town, hand him a no-limit credit card, and hed never go near the front door. Hed rather wait outside, in an alley.

Humans like that arent looking for stiletto heels and garter belts. Pay a bitch for some fake moans, wheres the jolt in that? Its the fake part that they cant stand. Turns them right off. But fear, now, thats real. Terror. Pain. Blood. Not what you buy, what you take.

You can buy anything in this town. Anything at all. But once you pay for it, the costumes dont matter. Youre not the dominator, youre the trick.

I know, but

See, theyre all wrong on this one, baby girl, I told her, holding up the printout shed handed me. Both sides are just spouting the party line. Rape is about sex, but, for some, its only the taking that makes it sexy. Get it? Once a belief system clamps down, it stays lockedreality never gets in the way.

I rubbed my temples, knowing I could never touch what really hurt. Michelle lit a smoke and sat back in her chair. Shed been with me too long to think I was done.

A man gets arrested for sexual abuse of his kid. If hes convicted, it proves that kids never lie about things like that. To one side, that is. To the other, it proves theres a witch-hunt going on, and the kid was alienated into making up the story to please his mother. One side screams, False memories! the other screams, Believe the children!

So fuck the factsno matter what they are, you can always make them fit. The truth never matters. Say that same guy is acquitted. Well, that proves that some people are falsely accusedto one side. To the other, it proves that people get away with child sexual abuse all the time.

But not everyone

You dont need everyone to win an election, sis. Hell, you dont even need a majority, not in this country. A true-belief system is the perfect sponge. It can absorb anything, but it never changes.

Its an amazing thing to watch in action. Newt Gingrich campaigns to get Clinton impeached for having sex with a White House intern at the same time hes having sex with a congressional aide. So what? Hes still a family values guy, right? He divorced the wife he was cheating on and married the mistress, but that ungodly slime Clinton never divorced his wife to marry the intern. See the difference?

No, my sister snapped at me. She sipped her tea, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray.

You go in blank-slate, sweetheart. Patterns are good for narrowing things down, but that just takes you to where the real work starts. Theres always a truth, no matter how deep its buried. You start believing in things, youre screwed from the start.

Theres things I believe in, she said, quietly.

Me, too, girl. But thats believing the truth we found, not what we were told, right?

She leaned over and kissed the scar on my cheek.

* * *

You think you really get it, dont you? Cyn asked me.

I was half reclining in a body-molding sponge chair, watching her prance around in a black leather corset that had to have been put together by a structural engineer.

She was in full costume, right down to the six-inch heels and domino mask. She must have just finished a session with Rejji: live-feed, subscribers only. Not even close to illegal, but a lot more lucrative than either of them could make working straight jobs. Cyn had a masters in psychology; Rejji had graduated magna from Brandeis.

I dont even get what you think I think I get.

Cyn reached up and took a long, thin metal rod down from a shelf. The rod had a tiny little circlet at its end. She tapped it into her black-gloved palm.

We told you what we know, she said.

And, the way you add it up, this guy hired props so he could teach his kid to be some kind of dom? I asked her.

Hes no dom, not if hes paying for it.

Rejji giggled.

Shut up, bitch! Cyn said, without turning her head. This isnt about his pathology, Burke. Its not about what he is; its about what he can do.

Because hes got the cash to buy

Its not for sale, Rejji said.

Cyn strode over to where Rejji was chained and slapped her, hard. Then she whirled and came back over to me.

You know what this is? Waving the metal rod in one hand.

Not a clue.

Cyn snapped her fingers. Come! she commanded.

Rejji crawled over, still chained by one ankle.

Remember Star? Cyn demanded.

Yes, Mistress.

Tell Burke where she got her name.

Rejji looked up at Cyn. In response to a nod, she got up from being on all fours and knelt as if saying a prayer. Star worked the Holy Coast for years, she said. Not L.A., San Diego. Just far enough away, but close enough, get it?

No, I told her, truthfully.

Her clients were all directors. They got off on being obeyed. Star had her own rules. You could dress her up, spank herwith just about anything you wanted to usebut that was it. No blood, no handcuffs, and no sex, ever. She said it was the easiest gig she ever had. Maid, serving girl, geisha-type stuff.

I dont get the last part.

That was where the money was. She had to beI guess worshipful is the word Id use. Tell the trick what a god he was, listen to him brag about how, when he said, Jump! the biggest names in the industry jumped.

Naturally, shed jump, too. Fetch him whatever he wanted: a drink, a whip, it was all the same. Of course, she had to keep her clients separately catalogued, so she remembered what made each one such a big deal. That way, she could act like she was his little slave because she wanted to be.

Money was never mentionedthat would have killed the image. Not just because they could never see themselves as tricks; there was a lot more to it than that. To keep them coming back, she had to be a better actress than anyone they ever directed.

They couldnt even be her sugar daddies. It had to be like shed pay them, if only she had the money. And the only reason she didnt have the money was because she couldnt hold a job and still be available twenty-four/seven for a visit from her master, could she?

She only had one at a time?

Jeez! Rejji said, caustically. There was no twenty-four/seven, Burke. Game, game, game. All of them had to make appointments, like any trick. Naturally, they didnt call them appointments, they called them commands.

She was a star.

Sure was. Rejji smiled. Only thing is, when you make a living pretending some sorry little loudmouth is your lord and master, you never get to be what you want.

The money

For some, thats right, Cyn said. What Rejjis telling you is the part youre missing.

I made an explain it to me, then gesture.

If youre going to do men, Rejji went on, making a face to show that the very idea was distasteful, as if what had happened between us one night a few years agohadnt, being a domina is the way to go. You wouldnt believe the captains of industry who cant wait to crawl down to some dungeon and be punished. See, that works for themsomething about paying a woman so they can lick her boots balances out their world.

Theyre still in control?

Of course. You know why?

Like you said, they pay

No! Because theyve got choices. Theyre not looking for a connection with another person; theyre connecting with themselves. If one domina doesnt work out for them, they just find another. They know theyre playing at being a slave, which means they can play anywhere they can pay. That fits.

Dont they everI dont know, getattached to one of the girls they pay?

They may like one better than another, but the only real attraction is to what they do. Its never more than that.

How does this help me?

You know what this is? Cyn asked me again, holding up the metal rod. No? Well, this, this is the part you dont get.

I waited.

A branding iron, she explained, handing it to me. The tiny circlet was some intertwined initials. Rejji wants me to brand that perfect ass of hers. Been begging for it for years, havent you, bitch?

Yes! Rejji gasped, licking her lips.

Cyn never turned her head. One time, I had just given this one a really serious whipping. Then I told her to get dressed and go out and buy me a nice hairbrush; I wanted her shopping while her ass was still on fire. The second I told her that, she came so hard she fainted. A few days later, she came back with this.

Cyn took the branding iron back from me. I harnessed her up real tight, gagged her stupid mouth, and used a riding crop until she was blistered. Then I took out her gag and asked her, what did she want? When she begged for that branding iron, you know what I did?

I waited.

I gagged her again. Tight. Like I would if I thought she was going to scream. I let her wait a littlethen I bent down and kissed her ass.

Rejji suddenly broke into tears.

Cyn ignored her, turned to me, said: I told her that nobody tells me what to do with my property. If I wanted to brand her, Id do it. She never gets to make that decision. Any decision. You let a sub tell you how she wants to be punished, whos really in charge? Get it now?

Maybe, I said, moving slowly, navigating without a map. Youre saying this guy, he wouldnt have stopped. If his baby hadnt been snatched, eventually he would have taught him how to

Guaranteed, my consultant confirmed.

But that would come later, I said, thinking of Kallinger, and how old his son had been when he took him along on his rampages. After puberty. In the meantime, if he wanted to program the baby, the rougher he wanted to handle the merchandise, the more hed have to pay to do it.

Uh-huh.

So it wouldnt be someone like this Star girl. Hed need

For the extra-heavy stuff, youd need a slave. I dont mean a captive. That happens, I know, but its way too dangerous. This freak was building a dominator, not a murderer, and you cant let a captive go when youre done with her.

Besides, even to a little kid, it would be obvious that the women were being forced. And he was teaching the baby that all it ever takes is money.

Cyn patted Rejji gently as she looked down at me, making sure I was still with her:

You might find a woman whod go along with damn near anythingyou know, Story of Otype crap. But that kind needs a live-in, not an occasional visit.

Like us, Rejji said, boldly. You think, because I do whatever Mistress tells me, Ive got nothing to say?

I dont know how it works, I told her, truthfully.

Rejji reached up and cupped one of Cyns enormous breasts. While youre telling him about branding irons, why dont you tell him about these? she said, sounding about as submissive as a silverback.

Cyn took a seat on a padded ottoman. Crossed her long legs. Took off the domino mask. Said: Rejji told me Ive got two more years, max. Then, if I didnt have the surgery, shed leave me.

I must have looked puzzled.

You think these are store-bought? Cyn said, bitterly. No. Theyre all mine. And, believe it or not, all they ever did for me was get in the way. So the less seriously people took me, the more serious I got.

I didnt bring Rejji out; she brought me. After wed been together for a while, the orthopedist told uswe went togetherthat if I didnt have breast-reduction surgery Id end up with curvature of the spine. But the minute I have the surgery, our business will take a real hit. Weve got money put away, but not enough to maintain our lifestyle. Wed have to give up a lot of the things weve gotten used to.

I knew the things she was talking about: the designer dresses, the palatial two-floor apartment, the vacations, the gunmetal-gray Porsche with the Day-Glo orange bumper sticker:

YOU DECIDE IF I GET AN ABORTION?

THEN I DECIDE IF YOU GET A VASECTOMY

But wed get to keep the only thing that counts, Rejji said, tenderly interrupting my inventory-taking. She turned to face me squarely: Exchange, get it? Tonight, Ill be polishing those boots shes wearing. With my tongue. I give that to her, because I want to, and I want to because I love her. But Id never give her the right to cripple herself.

See why it could never fit? Cyn said, recrossing her legs. Thispiece of filth whos training his baby, he has to show him money can make any woman do whatever he saystheyre all holes, right? So hed need variety. A different one each time, Im thinking.

But theres a

Limit? Please. Theres more girls for rent than Hertz has cars. Some of them, theyre not just commodities, theyre consumables. You pay enough, youre not expected to return her when youre done.

No good.

Why?

Because his game is way more complicated than that, Cyn. He doesnt need to teach the baby that you can torture a woman for funor even kill her. Where he lives, you can do that, if youre royalty like him. What hes teaching the baby is that secret all the freaks share: women want to be used.

Cyn nodded slowly. So hed have to rent, she said, thoughtfully. And no spanking-for-sale stuff. Hed need merchandise he could return in very poor condition.

Rejji nodded her own agreement.

Thats got to be a small list, I said.

Small enough, Cyn answered me, her mouth a hard, straight line. Well call you.

* * *

On the way back to my place, I saw a splash of graffiti. A lot of work had gone into this one. A huge section of the wall had been sprayed white; then the message was painted over it in spilled-blood red:

BUSH WAS PRO-CHOICE

AND HE CHOSE WAR

This was no teenage taggers work; the message was stenciled, not freehand. I touched it lightly: the whole thing had been clear-coated with some kind of transparent material. That kind of operation takes teamwork and organization. I would have bet good money the same exact sign was popping up all over the country. Certain parts of it, anyway.

One of the first things Id learned from Max was hard to soft; soft to hard. Some men have concrete skulls, but no mans got a concrete liver. You dont block incoming; thats a good way to break whatever you block with. What you do is turn, deflect, absorb. The power of any strike is in where you place it.

Whatever style you call it, the foundation stone is always the same: balance disruption.

All that movie crap isnt just decaying peoples brains, its getting their bodies broken. They all know the screenplay answer to the ancient masters question: Would you rather be an oak or a willow? Me, I learned the real answer to that one in places where the grading wasnt pass/fail, it was live/die. That answer is a question: Am I trying to withstand a hurricane, or fracture a skull?

When youre up against humans whose moral compass is True South, the only rule is: Get it done. Done, as in finished. Over. Ended. The only ceremony you care about is the autopsy.

In prison, the enemy of my enemy is my friend never stays permanent. Its a radioactive isotope, with a half-life that could turn out to be your own.

Too bad we dont send politicians to prison before they get elected, maybe theyd learn something. Instead, we get ideologues and moronslike theres a differencewho give major weapons and top-quality training to any government whos fighting our enemy du jour. Then, when our friends turn on us, the politicians point fingers at each other. If theyd pointed missiles in the first place, and aimed them at the right targets, we might actually have bought ourselves some safety. Maybe even some respect.

* * *

Cyn had told me she would be working a short list. While she did that, I worked on making my own list shorter, trying to narrow it down to that single thread Id need to pull.

I turned on CNN to watch the scroll, the mute locked on so I didnt have to listen to the bobblehead dolls.

Turned out to be newsreel footage about a Russian journalist named Ivan Safronov who supposedly committed suicidea step up from just gunning them down in the street like theyd done to Anna Politkovskaya when shed dared to send dispatches from Chechnya.

I guess the point was how the same mask kept dropping everywhere. They showed Shinzo Abe putting his personal stamp on his tenure as Prime Minister of Japan by claiming that the comfort women forced into sex slavery to service soldiers during World War II were a myth. Oh, there may have been some women working in brothels, but the numbers were insanely exaggerated. Anyway, the ones who did that work were whores before they were chosen to serve, so what was all the fuss about?

Maybe Iran will invite him to their next Holocaust Denial Conference. By then, they should be nuke-proof enough to do whatever they feel like.

The footage rolled on. A quarter-century ago, Denmark had set aside a squatters roost for assorted anti-establishment types. Fit right in with the temper of the times then. Anarchists and artists from all over the world visited the huge building they called the Ungdomshuset. Some of them stayed, made it their home. But the Danish government sold the whole building to an evangelical Christian. Maybe they needed the money to do something about all the neo-Nazi biker gangs that had opened for business there.

Next, a Mississippi grand jury returning a No True Bill against Carole Bryant, the woman Emmett Till was supposed to have wolf-whistled in a little country store. Emmett Till was a black child. From Chicago. And he didnt know his place. Three strikes.

Bryants husband and his race-protecting buddy had grabbed the boy one vile night, right in front of witnesses, took him away, and tortured him to death. After a Mississippi jury took an hour to hand down the mandatory acquittal, the killers took a reporters money to brag about how theyd given the little nigger what he deserved. Years later, the same reporter tried the same trick with James Earl Raybut all he got for his money that time was a useless stack of snide-smiled lies.

No question that Bryant and his partner had pulled up in a car that night. No question that it took the two of them to wrestle the kid into the death car, while someone else sat behind the wheel. Fifty years later, the FBI decided to check its files. They turned over the information theyd had all along to the local authorities, with the mild suggestion that they might want to look into Carole Bryant.

I thought about all the people who had been murdered in Mississippi to stop blacks from voting. And why the killers even bothered.

The cobbled-up documentary wasnt working for meanger interferes with concentration. So I kept pressing buttons on the remote until I landed on a Road Runner cartoon.

We always root for Wiley, I explained to Rosie, scratching her behind her right ear. You know why? Im going to tell you a secret, little girl. Wileys not a coyote; hes actually a pit bull in disguise. You know how you can tell? Because, no matter what, he never quits. Hes been trying to nail that lousy bird for a million years. Gotten himself blown up, dropped off cliffs, had boulders dropped on his headbut he keeps right on coming. Now, whats that but a pit bull?

She made a chesty little noise.

Thats right, I told her. And thats us, too.

* * *

When the cartoon was over, I pushed buttons until I found another of those Law and Order episodes where the DA gets the suspect to spill his guts by offering the ultimate prize: Well take the death penalty off the table.

Now, this is what they call a sitcom, I explained to Rosie. Even when there was a death penalty in New York, every working criminal knew it was a rubber checkonly a Hoosier wouldnt spot it as worthless. They havent executed anyone in this state since I was a kid. Even when a prisoner raped and killed a female guard, that didnt get it done. Hes still waiting for the needle, and that was over twenty years ago.

Rosie snarled. I didnt know her well enough to understand if she was showing contempt or disgusttakes time for partners to sense each other that deep.

I gave up on the tube, tapped the CD player, closed my eyes, and felt the blues mist over me.

Charles Brown, Chuck Willis, Jerry Butler, Chris Thomas King, Luther Alison, Freddie King, Junior Parker, James Cotton, Otis Spann, Dion, Dave Hole, Fats Domino, Solomon Burke, Bobby Bland, Dave Specter, Hank Williams, Delbert McClinton, Albert King, Lowell Fulson, Lightnin Hopkins, when he was walking that road with Billy Bizor. Magic Judy, Marcia Ball, Etta James, Irma and Carla Thomasnot connected by DNA, by something deeperBonnie Raitt, Barbara Lynn, Dorothy Moore, Koko, Arethabefore she made a wrong turn and ended up lost in Motown

As I came out of wherever Id gone to, Johnny Ace was moaning The Clock. Hed died younggunshot wound to the head. The story was hed been playing Russian Roulette. Some bought it. Some still dont.

I made a phone call.

* * *

Where is the money in a whorehouse? the black-coated man scoffed. He had a rabbinical face, with gentle, moist eyes. Wed done business before.

He took a deep hit off a hand-rolled cigarette that looked as crudely effective as an Uzi, said: When a man goes to a whorehouse, he pays, he finishes, and he leaves. But a strip club, if everything is handled properly, instead of minutes, the man stays hours. And instead of taking a few dollars, you can bleed him white.

Even those escort services, what is the ceilinga couple of thousand, maybe, for all night? In a well-managed club, a man will spend many times that. He can buy magnums of champagne, glittery gifts for the girls, Cuban cigarswe have it all.

We make that man a king, yes? He snaps his fingers, and a dozen gorgeous women are at his feet. They stroke him, put on shows for him, call him whatever he wants to be called. Any whore can spread her legs; our girls know how to work the mark. This is no easy task, and it takes more than beauty to be successful at itbut their rewards are spectacular.

With a club, we can take credit cards. Corporate accounts. Men bring their friends for business lunches, gather their associates to celebrate a big deal they just closed. Girls for everyone, on the house!

If they have the money, they can be tycoons, Mafia chieftains, movie producersanything at all. When they enter our club, what they wish to be is what they are. The world becomes their world. Only a privileged few get a glimpse of paradise, but for those who do, it is more addictive than any drug.

These are gentlemens clubs, he said, his voice shifting toward a hint of what might happen to anyone who took his establishments for anything else. No stuffing cash in G-strings, no ATM machines in the lobby, no blowjobs under the table. It is not sufficient that the women be beautiful; they must be cultured and refined as well. The furnishings must be correct. The lighting is very important. No blasting music, nogarishness of any kind. Ambience is critical. And security is discreet.

We create all this magnificence. No matter what the outside world holds for him, once inside one of our clubs, the client is far more than a mere sultan; he becomes a god. What would you pay to be a god?

I watched him puff on the coarse cigarette, keeping my body posture attentive to my role. Part of that role was not answering questions that werent questions.

In a whorehouse, the merchandise is used. Used hard; used often. And what is used must, eventually, be used up. We rotate the girls among our clubs, keep them fresh, like flowers.

Of course, we still have to accommodate the local police, but the expense is minorespecially compared to an actual bordello. That is why all the real competition is over territory. You can open a club anywhere, but the finest setup will not attract the clientele we require if it is located in some remote area. So

He never finished the last sentence, but the firebombing of a newly opened strip club on the West Side was still a hot story on the news. No suspects.

Time to show Id been paying attention. The blackmail risk is next-to-nothing, too, I said. Every time a madam gets busted, she threatens to open her black book if they bring her to trial. But you show a tape of a guy walking into a strip club, it wont even cost him a divorce, much less a career.

Uhoccasionally, an employee will overestimate the value of certain information, he said, opening his hands slightly. No matter how well a casino screens its employees, there will always be some dealer who palms chips. Or cooperates with a team of signal-passers at the blackjack table. It costs money to prevent the loss of money. You see?

Yeah. In your business, blackmail threats are aimed at the customers, not the house, but protection is part of what your customers pay for. Same reason why a casino has to guarantee the games arent fixed.

Correct. And there is also what you people call an ancillary benefit. The targets of such threats are generally not experienced in how to deal with them. So they turn to those who are.

I nodded.

All they have to do is keep on paying, the black-coated man said. For as long as their money lasts, the world is as they wish it to be. We create that world. And we maintain that world, as any blackmailers quickly discover. Although you claim otherwise, America has its own class system. Money. Whorehouses are for peasants. Our establishments, they are for royalty.

* * *

Ive been doing this all wrong, I told the Prof, the minute Clarence left us alone.

Aint the first time, he said.

They should have kept you on that morphine drip longer, old man, I thought.

This was never about the fucking Prince was all I said aloud.

Couldnt have been, the Prof agreed. To groove that move, the snatch-men had to know the Sheikh was a freak. They wanted to shake him down, how hard could it be to find a whore wholl work with a camera in the room? And if they wanted to ice him, they coulda done that same time they took the kid.

Hes not shakedown material, I said, beginning to seesomething. How would that kind of tape be worth a dime to him? So hes teaching his kid that all women are sluts. Pigs, whores. Things, even. Whatd he call them? Holes, right? Whos that going to hurt his status with? The fucking Taliban? Thats their national anthem. The State Department? Come on: theyre already whores, and who knows that better than the Prince?

So its the baby, my father said.

Its the baby.

That means one thing, Schoolboy. It aint the whole deck we need to worry about, its just that fifty-third card. Cause that one, it aint no sleeve ace; its a joker. And its running wild.

* * *

I stayed with the Prof until Clarence finally came back. With Taralyn. As I walked out, the old man was explaining how Hillary and Obama had done their best to cancel each other out: Couple of dumb-ass dogsfighting over a Big Mac when theres a juicy T-bone a few feet away, he jeered. Only thing that could have made it worse would have been one comes out with an endorsement from Satan, and the other comes out, period.

Id already heard that speech: the Prof always worked himself up over how blacks and Latins cancel each other out in this city.

Black folks finally get their chance here, what do they do with it? he had ranted at me, years ago. They pick a monkey too stupid to unpeel a banana. So busy taking care of his friends, he never takes care of business. Look at OTB. Got to be the biggest bookie operation of all time, and it ends up broke. You ever heard of a syndicate bookmaker losing money, son?

Long-term, I dont even see how its possible, I co-signed. And with OTB its even worse. They get their own separate take-out on top of the tracks, and every bettor has to front the cash, too.

Yeah, well, it aint all on Dinkins. Sure, he was the lame who wrecked the train, but he dont deserve all the blame. We finally get a chance to headline the show, and we pick Stepin Fetchit to be the star!?

And whats he do? Throws the whites into a panic. Voted Democrat all their lives, but when they see Dinkins giving away everything to the spooks, this Giuliani toad starts looking real good to them. By the time the fools in Queens and Brooklyn realize that their man dont care about nothing but his peoplenot white people, rich peopleits too late.

Then the Latinos say, okay, its our turn now. And what do the blacks do? They just shuffle back on over to where the money is. Remember how it was Inside? Aint no different out here.

He had it right. Thats how we ended up with a white Republican mayor in a town where whites are a minority and Republicans barely exist.

Of course, the only reason the guy became a Republican is that the Democratic clubhouse wouldnt give him the nomination. With a few billion in spare change of his own, he didnt need financing, just a spot on the ballot. You can see his next move just as clear: hes going to bide his time until theres an opening, then pull a Perot.

I guess Clarence and Taralyn went on listening, maybe for different reasons. But the reason their hands stayed clasped was the same for both.

* * *

Would they have it online?

The subway, for sure, Terry said. The sewer system, I dont think so, but I can check.

I dont need subway maps, kid. I can grab one at any station. What I need is under the underground. I know theres stations all over the city where no train ever stops. Some abandoned, some never put into service. Stations mean tunnels, and tunnels stay open even if no trains go through. Its one of those that we need.

The sewer system has to be on the citys computers, so they could locate any problem immediately.

But not on some Web site?

I dont think so. Especially now, with all the terrorism scares.

Ive got an address, I told him. Theres no subway stop close by, but we can walk there from one of the abandoned stations I already know about. Its the sidewalk that counts. They have to lay the concrete over something, right? I want to get as close to that sidewalk as I can. And that means we have to find the route from underneath, see?

I can try.

I handed him a briefcase. Theres a laptop in there. Brandname. All factory parts, but theres no record of it existing. No serial number, not even on the components. Supposed to be the latest thing going; just came off the assembly line last week.

Thats great if it gets seized, but the IP

Theres a building in Cleveland thats slated for demolition, I interrupted. Somebody ran a T1 line into the basement. Im not sure how they did it, but I think it was bridged from a downtown brokerage house. I dont want you on any security cameras, anywhere. So you and me, were going to take a drive, okay?

He nodded, waiting for the rest.

We leave here about seven tonight, youre plugged in and running by three in the morning, I told him. That gives you about two hours to crack into their system and grab what I need. In case thats not long enough, Im bringing enough extra batteries to power that thing for a month. Gets too near daylight, I got a place we can stay, come back the next night. What do you say?

Ive only got one class this afternoon, Terry answered, without looking up. Ill be ready to go anytime after four. But well only get the one try, Burke. The second they detect an attempted intrusion, theyll lock it all down.

Fair enough.

Pick me up at school, he said. I dont want to have to explain to

Me, either, I assured him.

* * *

Anybody asked, I was taking my nephew on a road trip, a last bonding experience before he left home.

We didnt stop for food. Mama had us supplied with enough steel-canistered stuff to last a week. And the roadside darkness was all the restroom either of us needed.

I kept the Roadrunner at a steady nine-over all the way. Too much turnpike means too many troopers. But I did promise the kid wed do something on the way back.

* * *

The key Id paid a lot of money for let us in. And my blue-lensed LED Mini Mag found the promised T1 jack. While Terry was setting up, I made a seat for him out of some wood pilings. The windows were already boarded, but I draped a mesh shroud over Terry and the machine anyway.

Jesus! he said a few minutes later.

Then I heard the battery-powered printer go into action.

* * *

We left pieces of the computer and printersmall pieces, those things dont seem to handle claw-hammer blows real wellin a couple of dozen different places on the way back. The last traces went flying out the window somewhere past Youngstown.

The building itself was coming down on Monday. The printouts were in the trunk, in the hidden slot beneath the fuel cell.

I cant believe it, Terry said. The Department of Environmental Protection has got everything under the city mapped. See, its the clearinghouse, so any other agency, or even a private contractor, can find what they

Whats so amazing? I cut him off.

Whats amazing is, its like they had no protection on it at all. I could have cracked in even without

Safety first, I told him, as a Porsche blew by us like wind past a building.

The kid gave me a look. By the time we caught the Porsche, we were just a little over the century mark. I held the left lane until the other driver got insulted enough to try us. I dropped down a gear and let him stare at taillights until we disappeared.

Holy

Before Terry could finish, I was already pulling over and killing the lights, waiting for the Porsche to fly past, chasing a ghost.

Want to drive her? I asked him.

* * *

This would not be precise, the Mole said, studying the printouts.

I know.

No, the pudgy little man said, firmly. You do not. This is a time-and-distance problem.

He drew a circle on a sheet of graph paper, then darkened the center boxes. The object is in motion. He began to inch the point of a blue marker from an edge of the circle toward its center. Speed can be estimated only imprecisely, at best. So, the more powerful we make thistapping the dark center boxes inside the circlethe more certain ofsuccess.

I just nodded, knowing what was coming, steeled for it.

The closer to the center, the better. But we cannot control for closeness, so we must expand the center. That means anything within that center will also be

We can cut down those odds some, but its still going to be a dice-roll, I admitted.

Is there no other way? he asked, clearly pained by what my plan could cost.

Thats when I told him the stake we were playing for.

* * *

Ibelieve I understand, he said, minutes later. But this is the quintessential chain-reaction formula: one faulty link and the whole thing fails. One.

We wont even get to this part unless everything else is already in motion, Mole.

How will you ever?

I have to be right, I told my brother. Its as simple as that. I have to be. If it happened any way except the way I believe it did, its already over.

But even if you are right, even if you could make it all work, there would beconsequences. The pursuit would be relentless.

Mole, can I ask you something?

He looked at me, as expressionlessly menacing as an Easter Island statue.

If the Nazis had pulled it off, exterminated every Jew on earth, would they have stopped there?

No, he answered, giving away nothing.

After the Gypsies, after the homosexuals, what then?

Anything not

Come on, Mole. Were not doing politics here. When someone gets called an anti-Semite, that meanswhat?he hates Jews, right?

The underground man moved his head a fraction.

But thats inaccurate, isnt it? I said, deliberately using the language of science, not politics. Arent the Arabs also Semites? Arent they as close to your biological brothers as anyone on earth?

In Europe

Dont go there, brother. God couldnt have written the Bible, otherwise it would read the same in every language, never mind this Old and New Testament thing. Men created God, not the other way around. And where was the birthplace of that creation? The cradle of civilization itself? Come on! You know it wasnt Eden, so where was it? Where did we start? All of us, I mean.

Evolution probably was occurring in different places simultaneously, he said, calmly. There was no single starting point.

I buy that. Okay. But tell me Jews and Arabs didnt spring from the same seed.

He went so still that I could only sense his presence. He was doing what he was best at. I was, too. Which is why I outwaited him.

This is likely true, he finally conceded. But, today

Im not running for boss of the fucking UN, Mole. Im telling you why this could work.

Because the pursuers would believe it was?

I dont know where theyd look, I told my brother. But I know where nobody would be looking.

* * *

My people didnt need no Einstein to discover infinity, the Prof said, his voice bitter enough to etch glass. The trail never ends, cause theres nothing at the end. I can preach, I can teach, and I can reach. This is pure truth: the only place we go when were gone is where weve already been.

What we do here

Thats what stays behind, Schoolboy. The only thing. They used to tell us, Youll get pie in the sky when you die. And we believed it, cause it was the only way to make sense out of the life we had. But that pie was a lie, and some of us, we felt that like a fire inside us. A fire you have to keep inside, because you dont want it ever put out, and the whole world is nothing but steady rain.

This fire, it burns so bright, it makes you see the light. The light you follow. I know some of us, we fed those slaveholders a whole lot of pie before we died. Look back with me, he said, closing his eyes. You see it?

Yes. And I did.

But I still believe, the old man said, fiercely. Not in that hustlers handbook they preach from, but in the Word.

I dont

I believe in the truth, he said, reaching for my hand. He folded my hand into a fist. You cant punch through the wall, son. Maybe you cant even make a little crack in it. But if you believe, youll keep on hitting it until you cant hit no more, see? Then someone comes up behind you, hits that wall in the same spot. And someone else after that.

And somedaynot tomorrow, not next year, but some glorious daythat wall starts to look like a windshield that got hit by a rock. Spiderweb cracks all over it, and now you know: long as we keep punching, its not gonna hold. Thats the Word.

You know why? Im here to tell you. We on one side of that wall; they on the other. And you know what they doing over there? They aint waiting on a fight; they getting ready to run. Motherfuckers are all froze up with fear, like a field mouse when a hawks high in the sky. They know we coming. And we aint taking prisoners.

Amen.

They got it all wrong, son. Moneys the wall; bloods the punch. You got to pay the cost, all right. But not pay the cost to be the boss that rhyme is past its time. You pay the cost so nobody gets to be the boss. You tell the Mole to play his role. Tell him Im going down the road with you. Right to the end.

I kissed his cheek. Thanking my father for backing my play this one last time.

* * *

Were going to have it right here, Michelle told Clarence. The poor kid was trapped in my booth at Mamas, Michelle towering over him in her heels, hands on hips, bending forward to punch home every word.

I would have felt sorry for him, but Id spent enough time with Taralyn to know he might as well get used it. I remember Clarence complaining to the Prof: That girl, in a second, she can switch from cane sugar to what they use to cut it with, he said, lost in puzzlement and love. I dont mean shes bossy. Its not like she nags or anything. No man could want a sweeter woman. But, mahn, when she plants her feet, you could not budge her with a bulldozer.

What other kinda woman you want, fool? the Prof demanded. Didnt I explain all that to you already? Her kind, they mate for life, understand? You play her wrong, she aint gonna jump in your lunch, go all ghetto on your sorry ass. No. You do that, she gonna die inside.

You hear me, boy? A woman like your Taralyn, even if you buy yourself twenty years Inside, you dont ever need to worry about Joe the Grinder comin to call. Shes gonna stand her ground, go every round. So if you aint ready to go all the way, dont you even try and play, hear?

Yes, Father. I was not

Dont be developing those habits, son.

What do you mean?

You hear the Max-man talk about his woman?

Yes, Clarence said, putting his palm over his heart to imitate Maxs gesture.

That aint talking about her, boy; thats talking about his feelings for her. You want to tell your buddies you love your woman, go on with it. But dont you ever complain, because you end up having to explain. Always gonna be some moke who dont get the joke, see?

Yes, Clarence said, nodding.

A true-hearted woman like your Taralyn, you cant buy her, you cant sell her, and you sure as hell cant tell her. You think she some no-pride bitch you can stay out all night on, buy her some jewelry and thatll make it right? No! You leave that kind of game to this one, he mocked, nodding in my direction.

Yes, sir.

Poor bastard. And now he had to sit through Michelle explaining that the only place he could formally propose would be in a restaurant where ptomaine goes to die, the dirt is thicker than the carpet, and the vinyl had lost its virginity before he was born. What were you going to do? she mocked. Take her out to eat, bury the ring in the dessert, some cheesy stunt like that?

From the look on Clarences face, apparently so. Me, I pretended I was somewhere else.

Well redecorate! she said, half orgasmic at the very prospect. You wont recognize the place, I swear.

But this is not our

Mama strolled over from her perch by the cash register, tracking straight as a steel-hulled icebreaker.

For one night, she said, closing the deal. We get a car She cut herself off in mid-sentence, seeing Clarence start to open his mouth. Not your car. Limousine. All special. Flowers, crystal. Make perfect.

Mama, I so very deeply appreciate everything. But I would beembarrassed, if I had to

You think we be here? Mama stared him down. Sure, someplace here. But not in room. Waiters come, sure. Serve all special dishes. But not stay. You finish food, you signal, everybody disappear. Okay?

But the minute she accepts, then we can all?

Yes, little sister, he said to Michelle, grinning despite his anxiety.

Everyone was quiet, breathing in the moment.

After we finish the job, I reminded them all, breaking the spell.

* * *

We found six, Cyn said. Certified.

Okay, just give me the

Already done, she said, looking over at Rejji as she spoke. Three of them havent had a customer in months. Twore still in the hospital; the other was just discharged. The only other one wouldnt go near an Arab; she only does Nordic.

I looked a question.

Nazi torture chamber. The tricks play dress-up while they do her. Theres two more we know of, but we couldnt reach them. Ones been in Vegas for almost a year; the other ones not talking.

Maybe if I offered her

Too late for that, Rejji said, on the borderline between making a judgment and not giving a damn.

* * *

You must find that child, Taralyn said. She was looking at me, but speaking to Clarence. Your father has made remarkable progress, but he is going to need several more weeks of rehab and at least one more refitting before he can even think of

The Prof wasnt going to let anyone talk about him like he wasnt in the room. Girl, I wanted to slide away, you think Id tip the play?

Mr. Henry

Sides, you think Id ever put my own son under the gun? the old man said, hitting her with a smile that made it impossible to disbelieve him.

If you didnt know him.

* * *

It took a while to get in touch with everyone, but we managed to get together just before midnight. I looked around the table, thinking how some of us were in each others life from way back and some of us just knew each others back-story. And how none of that made any difference now.

Michelle and me had been together since we were kids. Max hadnt been born deaf, and after so many years of keeping the vow he made never to speak while he was learning the death arts, he probably couldnt anymore. Id been there when hed told Mama how he lost his hearing. I knew why the Mole hated sunlight, but I was probably the only one.

The Prof had adopted Clarence as he had me, but before the young gunman ever spent any time behind the Walls. Terry knew his own truth, but hed known his true family longer. His childhood had been a dirty little glass bead until Michelle used the telekinesis of love to roll a twenty-ton boulder over it.

Gateman had been in that wheelchair since he was a little boy. His father hadnt put him in there, but he liked dumping him out of it, especially when he came home drunk.

Nobody knew much of anything about Mama, but her name was no accident. Neither was Flower not being with us that night. Shed been kept out from the start. From her start.

I can do it, boss, Gateman assured me. The whole block is shorter than a damn football field, and his place is just about in the middle. I can park myself at the corner. You know, the whole begging-bowl bitnobodyll even look at my face. At that distance, I can put one in his eye socket without breaking a sweat. You know I can.

Making the shot aint the same as getting off the block, the Prof vetoed. He shifted in his chair, pillows bracing his stump.

Wed only gotten the Prof out after Clarence promised Taralyn wed bring him back. Hed taken her hand and kissed it, said, I swear on my love, and made her look into his eyes.

I know it is true, then was all she said.

I done it before, Gateman told the Prof. You know I have.

Aint no doubt you got the chops, the old man agreed. But this aint down where we live, Gate. This is rich mans country. People dont be going all Ray Charles when somebody gets himself popped off the count. Streets be jammed, too. Only way you get out is blast yourself a path. And you got too far to roll, bro.

Id only need to get as far as the van, Gateman insisted. We done it before.

Not in that neighborhood, I echoed the Prof. Those car chases through midtown, thats only in the movies. Nobody has to be chasing you; the regular traffic is a perfect roadblock. Remember, youre going crosstown. There isnt a getaway man alive who could make that run.

Michelle opened her cell phone, turned it so the screen was aimed at Gateman, said, Gotcha!

Moms right, Terry said. Everybody walks around with one of those things. You could be on YouTube before you got ten blocks away.

That was true. Terrys words took me back to the freak who told me all about how he had invented noir véritéjust before he died. Now it was an epidemic, with directors posting their kitten-in-microwave masterpieces on video Web sites, to the delight of creepy-crawly fans all over the world.

One endlessly recycled fave was the prison surveillance tapes of Father John Geoghan being strangled in his cell. The notorious pedophile priest had been murdered nine years ago. But the guy accused of doing it demanded a showcase trialwhich meant the tapes were part of the discovery evidence the prosecution had to turn over. How that tape got so popular on the Internet is less of a mystery than why so many people keep insisting theres no such thing as snuff films.

Gateman had picked up some of Rosies habits; he wasnt going to drop the bite. But what if I?

Listen, brother, I said. I wouldnt care if we could blast him from a spaceship, we cant have it look like a shooters work. Were building a skyscraper here. We leave out one lousy brick, the whole thing comes down.

From what you say, there aint but one way, the Prof said. Argument over.

But Michelle started, then stopped herself. We all looked at her, waiting. I know you can read, baby, she said to me. But that doesnt mean you can write.

I dont

My girls saying it like it is, the Prof backed her. Just cause you a wizard at catching lies, that dont put you in the same class at telling them.

Why would it be a lie? I asked. Asked them all.

You have always said

I know, Mole. But how did I know?

Maybe for the first time, Clarence explained something to his fatherby saying something to me: The Beryl woman. Ever since her, you have beendifferent, mahn.

Satchel Paige had it all wrong, I said, looking at the Prof. You look back, maybe somebody is chasing you. But if you never look back, how can you know?

Aint no way you could

I know that doors closed, I said, admitting out loud that the truth of my childhood was beyond reach, forever. And Im not going back. Not even to find it, never mind open it. But what the Mole said was right: I always thought I knew. And nownow maybe Im not so sure.

Thats the truth to tell, honey, Michelle said, reaching out to touch my hand.

First study, then teach, Mama cautioned, pointing at her unreadable eyes.

I will, I promised them all.

* * *

You recognize my voice?

I might, the man at the other end of the line said, but I couldnt put a name to it.

He wasnt being cagey, he was saying hed never told anyone about me. Joel Dryslan, Ph.D., didnt get to be one of this countrys elite forensic psychologists by reading books; hed learned a lot of his craft the same place I learned mine. He was a prison shrink for years before he became Chief of Forensic Services for the whole state. After a few years on that job, the climate in Albany caused him to call in sick. He never came back to work.

Its a permanent state of war in here, he told me once. We can sometimes negotiate temporary peace treaties, but the one war well never win is Security versus Treatment. Some two-digit-IQ sadist can nullify any decision I make. And hell do it just to show whos boss.

Today, Dryslan makes more in a few hours than he used to make in a month. Hes for hire, but hes no whore. Pay him his price, and hell take a look for you. But you cant tell him what to say after he does.

That means hiring him before the other side does isnt going to shield you, like with a lot of forensic experts. You know the kind I mean: The defense hires them, theyll tell the jury the blood-spatter evidence proves the defendants wife must have jumped from the balcony into the empty swimming pool. But if the prosecution is quicker to write the check, that same evidence will prove she was thrown to her death.

In some states, all you need to qualify as sane is to rote-repeat, It is a sin to kill. A lifelong history of psychiatric hospitalizations, complex conversations with the voices in your head, being on enough meds to open your own pharmacyso what? Just throw in the confession, like the woman who told the cops she stuffed her baby in the oven because Satan fears fire.

Then you bring in an expert guaranteed to label them all sociopaths. Translation: theyre not insane; theyre evil. And perfect candidates for the death penalty.

Works the other way, too. You can buy an expert wholl tell an enthralled jury how a human who raped babies for fun and made videos of it for profit was psychiatrically overwhelmed. The poor soul was suffering from a witchs brew of personality disorders, depersonalization syndrome, and, of course, pedophilia. A tormented creature like him should never be sent to prison; what he needed was a highly specialized, tightly structured, secure treatment program. In fact, having researched the matter thoroughly, the expert even knew the perfect placeit had all the latest modalities, really tight security, and a recidivism rate lower than his morals.

The defense summation would pound all this home, reminding the jurors that this treatment program wouldnt cost the State a dime; the defendants family stood ready to defray all costsand compensate the victims, too. Now, wasnt that the best way to really protect society?

Dryslans specialty was the effects of solitary confinement on mental health. He was enough of a realist to accept that some humans are too toxic to be at large, even inside a prison, but hed been around cons long enough to understand that solitary confinement isnt always about protecting the other inmates.

Id stumbled across him years ago, when I was hiding out in Oregon. I had to make money, so I took on some work. The trail Id been following led to a teenage runaway trying to protect her younger sister. That teenagers best friend turned out to be Dryslans daughter.

The two were so close, theyd called themselves the Crow Girls, after the Maida and Zia characters in the magical books of Charles de Lint that so many young searchers adored.

It ended like most of my work does. But not as ugly as what was going on before I stepped out of the night long enough to do the only good thing Im good at.

This time, my call was to a 520 area code, not a 503it had only taken me a minute to locate Dryslan once the operator told me the first number Id tried had been disconnected.

Another new experience for me: looking for someone who wasnt trying to hide.

I need to talk to you, I said. This has nothing to do with you or yours, past or present.

I could feel the change in him even as I spoke. Most people who cross paths with me share the same wishthat it never happens again.

Professionally? he asked.

Yes.

And its not something you could do?

Face-to-face, Doc. But anything else you want, any other conditions: you say it, you got it.

* * *

The flight to Phoenix was a nice, smooth non-stop. Id always thought of Phoenix as kind of a small town. Maybe it was, but the airport was humongous.

Walking out of baggage claim onto the sidewalk was like stepping out of a meat locker into the Sahara. An ancient, bleached-green BMW Z3 was just pulling up. I opened the door, climbed inside.

Dryslan looked the same: broad-chested, with a gentle smile and empathetic eyes. His handshake conveyed just a hint of the wrestler hed been in college.

Ever been to Phoenix before? he said, by way of greeting.

Couple of times, I told him.

Like it?

Long as you dont put the top down, Ill probably like it fine. How old is this crate, anyway?

You sound like the dealer every time I bring her in for service, Joel said, grinning, still in love with his toy.

And still driving with an urgency that was all about having fun, not being in a hurry.

My office is in my house, he said, when we got on a main road.

Ive got a hotel room, I told him, handing him the paper with my reservation on it.

Id met his kids. Jenn was a beautiful girl, but so unselfconscious about it that she never fell into the role. A brilliant student, with a deeply caring heart, following her fathers path. His son, Mike, was tough enough to play rugby for entertainment, and walked around exuding a sincerity that even the best con man couldnt hope to copy. He was in a top MBA program, after working for two years to get real-world experience. I didnt care what business that kid ended up picking; I was ready to invest.

Protective doesnt get within a thousand miles of how Dryslan was about his family, so I knew what telling me his office was in his home meant. I admired the way he found to get that across without hurting my feelings.

Thats why Id come. About those.

* * *

Phoenix may have a world-class airport, but its idea of a high-end hotel came up a bit short. I only had a carry-on, and we were inside my suite in a few minutes.

Joels presence immediately turned the place into his office. We each took an easy chair, nothing but artificially chilled air between us.

The shades were drawn. The only light was a floor lamp in one corner.

I talked and talked. Only realized Id been at it for so long when I rotated my neck to crack the adhesions loose and got a glance at my watch.

I stopped then.

Joel was quiet for a little bit before: Hows that been working out for you?

Huh?

Your construct.

Look, Doc

Youre not any kind of sociopath, he said. Not offering a diagnosis, stating a fact. Oh, you fit the DSM criteria: failure to conform to social norms, disregard for the rights of others, multiple arrests, deceitfulness, early-onset aggression, lack of remorse. But none of that is very persuasive. In fact, most of its meaningless.

Antisocial Personality Disorder is what they call it now. The key word is personality. And personality doesnt tell you much about anyone; only behavior does. A mans personality might be obnoxious, for example. But that wouldnt necessarily stop him from being honest.

For a man like you, lying isnt a personality, its a tool. You use it for your work, but its not who you are. Same thing with aggression. The only thing provable about you is a lifetime of criminal conduct. You want a diagnosis, try outlaw.

I looked at him, said nothing.

Nothing complicated there, he went on. Self-explanatory, really. You live outside the law. You support yourself by crime. You dont experience guilt as a normal person might. In fact, you find some forms of aggression to be fulfilling, at least temporarily so. Youre filled with a rage that youeventuallylearned to control. Not because you wanted to be a better person; because you wanted to be a more skillful criminal.

That still sounds like

The entire concept of sociopathy is simply our professions refusal to acknowledge that some people are actually evil. Its not a personality disorder to be a thiefor even to feel no guilt about being one. Those criteria I cited before? They could fit a not-too-bright thug, or a highly sophisticated predator. A chronic shoplifter, or a serial killer. Sociopath is just a labeland its so overbroad that its lost all meaning.

If we were to actually use the term diagnostically, we would say a sociopath is a person who lacks the fundamental human quality that prevents the entire species from reversing evolution. That quality is empathy. Not faking it, feeling it. No true sociopath is capable of caring what happens to anyone other than himself. He feels only his own pain. Thats not you. Its never been you.

I wanted to be

No, you didnt, Joel said, cutting me off. You thought you wanted to be. Right?

I just knew I didnt want to be

Dont say afraid, he cautioned me. Some people do lose the capacity to experience fear, but thats because theyve gone numb. Permanently anaesthetized. Thats what you wanted. What you thought you wanted. Not to feel. Not to feel anything.

Everyone knows a kids feelings can be hurt real easilythats why emotional abuse probably causes more long-term damage than any other. But when you were a child, you didnt make those fine distinctions. You had it all figured out, didnt you? Feelings hurt. All feelings. Any feelings. To you, feelings and hurt meant the same thing.

You told me once about a man named Wesley, your brother, you said. Actually, he was the outlaw ideal, wasnt he? Someone might be able to kill him, but no one could ever hurt himisnt that what you told me?

It was true, I told him.

No, he said, his voice bench-pressing the sadness off his chest, so the word came out like an expired breath. If it was true, why did he ever protect you?

I never knew. He was just

Joel leaned forward, drawing me into the secret he was sharing. Ive met every kind of human horror you can imagine. I dont mean horrors done to humans; I mean humans who were horrors. Genuine psychopaths, if you like that label better. And you know the one thing they always had in common?

I didnt answer.

You thought child abuse, didnt you? he said. But then you threw that out immediately, because youve known too many people who were abused as children who didnt carry it on. Yes?

I nodded.

Dryslans voice didnt change volume, but it dropped an octave. A psychopath isnt a human being, hes a facsimile of one. He looks like us; he talks like us. Most of the time, he even acts like us. But he can never be one of us. He can do anything humans do except for one: he cant bond.

This is what they all have in common, every single one: some variation of Attachment Disorder. They werent allowed to bond during the time our species is designed to have that occur. Its simple; its sadand its immutable. They never learned it when they should havecould have, in fact. But thats not a capacity you can develop if you start too late.

That last parts only a guess, but it does seem axiomatic, he said, ruefully. Why would a psychopath want to develop empathy? It would only weigh him down.

I closed my eyes, so that nothing I might see in his face would get in the way of what Id come to hear.

At some level they understand they were cheated out of something so valuable they dont even know what to call it. They all know. Yeah, even the stupid ones. Forget that nonsense about them all being handsome, charming, and intelligent; thats just a made-for-TV movie.

What if?

But theyre only a tiny slice of the walking wounded, he rolled right on over what I was going to say. All abused children keep searching. Some cut themselves, so they can feel something. Some find substitutes, even if theyre only objects.

The paperback collector, flashed across the screen of my mind.

Some convert abuse into proof of love, he said, never changing his tone. If he didnt love me, he wouldnt beat me. How many times have you heard that? But most of them, they just look for ways to stop the pain. Drugs, alcohol, a cultSome actually feel the emptiness, as if it were a physical void inside themselves. Its a list without endhuman searching.

But if theyre searching, theyre not

Yes! he said, reaching out to smack my upper arm, like Id just scored. What saved you?

My family, I answered, without a nanosecond of pause or a microdot of doubt.

Youd die for them?

Dont draw the line there, killing that cliché as quickly as Id kill anyone who ever so much as

Where, then?

There is no line, I told him.

He didnt blink. And came right back with the foundational truth: Of course there isnt. How could there be? Without them, theres no you.

I took it without a word, but he wasnt done:

You developed your whole life story off a blank birth certificate. Told it to yourself until it became unshakable truth. Your reality. But it never got all the way inside, did it?

I dont under

Your motherthe woman who gave birth to youabandoned you. Didnt want you. And you didnt feel a thing, is that about right?

Thats not

The hate didnt come until later, he said, untapped power vibrating under the gentleness of his voice. You said it was your mother, but it was the State who raised you. Every hideous thing ever done to you, the State did that. But no crying for Baby Boy Burke. Thats for punks. Hate, thats a mans emotion. Whod you learn that from, Wesley?

Wesley didnt hate anyone.

Hate is a feeling, he said. And, in your mind, Wesley didnt have any of those. But the truth is, thats not what you wanted to be. Not a hired killer, not the famous iceman Wesley was.

You didnt want to be afraid, I know. And you kept trying to find a way there, didnt you?

Yeah, I said, thinking of me as a gang kid. Flying between rooftops; kneeling with my head on the subway tracks, train coming, knowing I was going to be the last one to jump. Spinning the cylinder on a revolver with all but one chamber empty as the next kid waited his turn

But Dryslan saw through that. The one sure thing about dying is that it stops the pain. But stopping where the pain came fromthats where you needed your story.

Ill never know if my

Cant even say the word, can you?

Mother? A mother is what you do, not what you are.

And yours, all she did was run.

Thats right.

And maybe thats true, the doctor said. But you dont know. You couldnt know. So you went with what worked. What got you numb.

I

Your family, I never met them. But I can tell you this: some of the strongest bonds are between those who never stopped searching until they found what they needed to make them human.

When I opened my eyes, he was saying, If we get it in gear, we can still catch that return flight.

* * *

I took my seat, slipped on the noise-canceling headphones I always carry on planes to discourage anyone from talking to me, and closed my eyes again.

Id gone to see Dryslan for the same reason a power-punching cruiserweight prepping for a title fight would make sure he had a top-class middleweight as one of his sparring partners. I couldnt let the decision go to the judges, and there was no rematch clause in the contract. So my job would be to cut down the ring.

If I could land one, I knew I could end it. But to do that, I had to keep my moves razor-honed. Play the role, and play it perfect.

I couldnt think it; I had to be it.

As the plane touched down, so did I. Id gone to Phoenix with questions, and Id come back with answers.

Some answers.

But, like Dryslan had reminded me, theres some Ill never know.

* * *

What difference would that make?

You already know, I told Pryce. This has to be one-on-one.

What if I could get you a simultaneous translator? he countered. Just like in the UN. You each put on headphones, its like youre talking to each other in the same language.

No.

Because I told you she speaks English, or because you dont want me to have access to?

Ive got no choice about that, I said, so whats your problem? I need your people to make it happen. No matter how you get your part done, youre going to set up a way for you to listen in.

Couldnt you?

No, I cut him off, trying to get past the reflexive bargaining his kind always tries. And Im not putting any of my people in this, understand? Not to convince her, not to set up a meet, not to snatch her, notnothing. That parts yours. Were not playing find-the-middle here. Say yes or say no.

Why cant your?

I dont have a crystal ball. If she turns the wrong way, I have to be the only one she gets to turn on.

He tried a bored-scornful face, watching mine. Finally said: What makes you think she even knows anything? You think she hasnt already been debriefed?

I wouldnt be surprised if they went fucking total Guantánamo on her. But if Im right, anything they didanything they know how to dotheyd be wasting their time.

But you, youve got some magic you think will work?

You think so, too, I slapped away his tsetse fly sarcasm. If you didnt, you wouldnt be here.

He tapped his fingertips lightly on the countertop. You know I work alone.

Nice try. I know you dont have partners, I said. Thats not the same thing.

Whatre the odds?

If Im right, youre a mortal lock for hero status. And whatever goes along with that.

And if youre not?

Then the only way you stay out of a grave is to put me in one. And even if you managed that, you could end up in the plot next to me. I laid it out, straight. If I cant pull this off, the best we can hope for is a lot of fires that have to be put out. And youd better pray that the people who hired you think youre the only one with a big enough hose to do it.

Sounds like a pass to me, he said, hedging.

Is that right? I dont have to call to see your hand this time, Pryce. I know what youre holdingyouve been drawing dead since the flop. So you can either try and double-talk your bosses, or you can open the door for me. Theres no option three.

I watched his eyes. Saw something Id never seen on any of his faces before. Indecision.

I know I can make it happen, I took one last try. But I need a way in to do it.

Do it for her? Or to her?

Thats yours; I already said that. You get me that one-on-one with her. Then its all on me.

Youre that confident?

Ive got one card to play, I told him, sending out the truth, hoping he could pick it up. That card is meand Im the only one who can play it.

You know what happens if youre wrong.

That doesnt change anything. Cant change anything. Like I said, I dont know what youre ready to bet, but I put down everything I had the minute I asked you to set up the meet with her, didnt I? And that was my choice. I could have just fan-danced my way through some investigation, told you I struck out, and walked away.

Then why didnt you just let it play itself out? he asked, narrowing his eyes. You already got paid. And not half in front, eitheryouve already collected it all. So whats in this for you?

Youre not the one I have to answer that question for, I told him.

* * *

I worked hard the next few days. Supposedly to practice, get my timing right. Focus, concentration, one-strike finishers. I never left the dojo, except for meals with Maxs family.

I might have fooled Flower, but Immaculata knew why Id moved in. I saw it as she watched me say goodbye to her daughter, even though that word never passed my lips.

Flower gave me the same kiss shed been giving her uncle Burke since she hit her teens, standing on her toes and reaching her hand into my outside jacket pocket for the secret money she knew would be there.

Immaculata kissed me, too. Said something in that French-Vietnamese language I didnt have to translate to understand.

Max and I tried a formal bow. It didnt work for either of us.

* * *

I must

Only me, brother, I told Clarence, turning to our father for confirmation.

Aint none of us can be around when this one goes down, the old man agreed. The boss even smells a cross, hes gonna nuke the whole juke. He looked at me carefully. You skydiving on a real old parachute, son.

At least this time I bought my own ticket, I told him.

The old man squeezed my forearm. You aint gonna miss the wedding, Schoolboy. Aint no place you end up that I cant go and fetch you back.

* * *

This is it?

You expected something moreelaborate? the Mole answered.

I guess I did, I told him, fingering a short length of inch-thick stuff that looked as if it came off a roll of insulating material. Only this wasnt rough fiberglass; it was putty-colored, and smooth as a top-class escorts legs.

It has to withstand moisture for as long as several days. And it must remain in place, too, the Mole said, as if that explained anything.

But itll definitely?

Or more, depending on how close it can be placed, the man with the cottage-cheese complexion promised. His denim eyes were magnified by the Coke-bottle lenses, as unreadable as ever.

* * *

When we came upstairs, we told Michelle and Terry. Not everything, just enough. Despite what the Prof had said, once they found out the Mole was going to walk with me, I had to give them each some part to play.

* * *

There are places in this city where you can buy any uniform you might want. Not a copy, the real thing. Cop, firefighter, sanitation, you name it. Even federal: FBI, DEA, ATF, whatever. Badges and insignia, too. But I couldnt use any of those placesthey all have authentic telephones, too.

This is just a generic jumpsuit, Michelle said, after examining the photos I showed her. There has to be a better image I can work from.

I dont need to leave the computer to do that, Terry said, going to work.

You are ruining those shoes, she snapped at the Mole. He was meticulously replacing the steel shanks in her strappy spike heels with an exact match made of something else. Since his craftsmanship was far superior to the original, everyone in the room translated Michelles bitching to: You have to buy me another pair.

Mole smiled at that one. He knew his woman. Knew she was really saying, Youll be back.

* * *

The subway is closer to the sidewalk, but we had to start down in the sewer system. And stay down there until we found the access point.

We plodded along, miners lamps blazing on our yellow hardhats. Anyone we ran into down there wouldnt expect EPA workers to be moving around in the dark without them. The oxygen masks we wore over our faces wouldnt look out of place, either.

And nobody who saw us carrying orange equipment packs with T O X I C stenciled across the back was going to try and start up a conversation.

We didnt run across any alligators. I dont know if those old urban legends ever had any truth in them, but it didnt matter. There isnt an alligator on earth whod stand a chance against the mutated rats that owned this part of the city.

In fact, it was those same rats who showed me how we could pull this off. When that video of them invading a fast-food restaurant had aired on every TV station in town a while back, Id filed away some vital informationrats dont have food preferences. This city is rotting from the bottom up, the barriers between the underground and the street getting weaker every day. That fast-food joint had just been sitting over a thin spot. Since the same restaurant had been given a passing grade by the health inspector the day before, the media went berserk.

The City Council immediately responded with the perfect solutionthey shut down the restaurant. I guess they figured those rats had been strolling down the street like those hapless foodies whose idea of a date is checking sidewalk-window restaurant menus. One rat says to the other, This one looks interesting, and its game on. Yeah, right.

The same tracks run beneath penthouses and slums. If you think your buildings basement is rat-proof just because you pay a few grand a month for a one-bedroom, change your meds.

I kept my stride as unvarying as possible, checking the pedometer strapped to my ankle. The Mole had some kind of sonic probe with him, too, but we still followed the plastic-coated map I carried, brightly colored arrows marking our route.

We both stopped in the same spot. The Mole nodded his okay. His method of calculating distance was light-years ahead of mine, but he was a scientist in his soul, and he never ran an experiment without a control.

The subway station at Sixty-third and Lex had never actually opened for business, but the tunnels were still operational. So was the Authorized Personnel Only elevator.

I guess they thought the sign was security enough. Why bother locking the door to an abandoned house?

The elevator took us to just below the sidewalk, where we rechecked the maps. Wed ended up so close to our target point that finding the exact spot only took another minute.

I unfolded the collapsible aluminum ladder so that it formed a horizontal platform between the two sets of rungs. Standing, we each had plenty of room to reach up and work.

My watch glowed 12:09. Plenty of lunch-hour foot traffic would be right above us, perfect cover for Michelle. We had told her twelve-fifteen.

She was early. We couldnt hear the tap of her heels on the sidewalk above us, but the Moles meter went from pale green to bright red, held for a second or two, then back to green.

When the meter repeated the message, he nodded and we unfurled the putty-colored stuff, carefully peeling off the self-stick backing. Then we patted it into place, neither of us being gentle about it.

Once satisfied it would hold, the Mole took what looked like four spikes from his kit, handed me two of them. We pulled the cork off the tips, then pushed them in deep. One went into each of the short sides of the rectangular blanket, the other two into the center.

We climbed down. The Mole used his flash to check one more time. Then I folded up the ladder and looped it over my shoulder. The Mole signaled go back with a gloved finger.

The only company we had along the way was the occasional rat. Some of them were ready to take on moving food, but we were too big, walking too steadily, and didnt smell like prey. The Mole never had to use the spray-hose connected to whatever he had loaded in that oxygen tank.

By the time we were halfway back, wed negotiated a treaty with the rats. Everybody survives; nobody talks.

* * *

While the uniforms were being incineratedincluding the gloves and boots and hooded bodysuits wed worn under themthe Mole and I took a shower with military-grade disinfectant. The biggest danger lurking in prison today isnt AIDS, its hep-Cand what we just walked through would probably kill diphtheria on contact.

Thats a lot of steel and concrete, brother, I said.

The signal wont be traveling the same route.

But itll still set off the?

Yes, the underground man said. And my son will be nowhere near.

I didnt mean

I know, he said, kindly.

* * *

A Mercedes S600 long-wheelbase sedan with diplomatic plates pulled up outside a trčs-elite salon. An alert man slid out of the back seat, followed by a slender woman in a simple blue dress and matching pumps. The man didnt offer her his hand, never made physical contact of any kind.

They waited on the sidewalk until a third man emerged, from the front passenger side. Same height as the first, but bulkier in build.

The black Benz pulled off immediately. Smart move. The womans standing appointment was for three hours, so waiting at the curb was out of the question. Cops in that precinct hated limo drivers on general principles, and Arab diplomats already owed the city millions in unpaid parking fines.

The two men bracketed the woman as they walked her to the door. Not bodyguards; body-guarders.

The bulky one opened the door. The woman stepped inside. The second armed servant followed. We knew who they served.

Princess Aabidah! the exotic-looking ornament at the front desk trilled.

Within seconds, a straw-thin male wearing a burgundy smock and enough attitude to keep the Goodyear Blimp floating for weeks flounced in.

Princess, he said, very formally. Then he made an imperiously ushering gesture toward a remote section of the salon that was behind a set of Look how expensive I am! Japanese paper screens.

The body-guarders took up positions on either side of the front door, watching the shadow-play of their charge being seated behind the screen.

A mirror fell to the floor, shattering on impact. Oh, no! an effeminate voice shrieked. Everyones head swiveled at the noise as a river of burgundy smocks rushed between the guards and the screen. A few seconds passed before the smaller bodyguard smoothly removed his right hand from inside his suit jacket.

As long as they kept their distance, the property-protectors would never realize that their charge was already behind another door. The woman whose shadow they were now watching was getting a bonus whoever she worked for hadnt offered in the hiring brochure.

We had no doubt they would keep their distance. To directly observe the Princess in the midst of such an intimate moment was forbidden; it had taken months to work out this special arrangement before their master had been satisfied.

The Princess had no time to even gasp before the thick door closed behind her with a hissing sound that announced it had been soundproofed. Please sit, I said formally, indicating a chair opposite her. When she didnt move, I held up a large, blown-up photo of her missing baby. I remained seated, made no move of any kind.

I demand to

Balance disruption, I reminded myself. You are Aabidah Amatullah, I said aloud, my voice carrying the low-volume potency of the not-to-be-doubted. Your baby was stolen. I know the truth of that. You believe you know that truth, but you do not. You are in no danger. You are not a prisoner. All thisI pointed to the heavy padding that covered each inch of the room we were inis to protect you.

I waited three heartbeats, then said, We understand you are under the scrutiny of the men who brought you here. At this very moment, your husbands servants are watching a woman behind the Japanese screens. They will never dare to come closer, as you know.

You are safe here. Not just from them, from us as well. If you wish to leave, nobody will stop you. All I can doall I will dois to beg you to listen first to what I must tell you. I told you that you were in no danger, Aabidah Amatullah. That was the truth. But your son, Ghazi, is in danger. Mortal danger. If you will let me explain, I will prove this to you. And I will show you how to save him.

Her face showed no trace of inbred royalty; she had the profile of a desert hawk. And the eyes.

What those eyes saw was a man whose face was a road map of damage, hurt, and pain. His eyes were two different colors. The keloid dimple in his cheek was something she might have seen before, in her earlier lifea poorly repaired bullet wound.

Suddenly she sat down. Saying nothing with her mouth, and everything with the gesture.

Those people your husband sent to guard you will know nothing of this meeting, I promised her. When you emerge from behind the screen, your hair will be done, your skin treated, a manicure and pedicure if you wish. All I ask is that you not look at the person performing such services.

She said nothing.

I struck without warning: Your son was not kidnapped.

She had been trained since birth to keep emotion from her face, but she couldnt stop her eyes from telegraphing. She was fighting off shock, using her will as a sword.

You arranged for him to be taken, I said. Still formal, still respectful. Not accusing, reciting a fact. I know why you did this. I admire you enormously for the decision you made. No mother ever made a greater sacrifice.

Her body was stone, but her eyes had shaken off the paralysis, soundlessly screaming.

I went deep into myself, reaching out to sync her heartbeat with mine.

I knew I had locked on when she finally spoke: Why would you say such things?

I say what I know.

How could you know such a thing?

Because you did for your son what my mother did for me, I told her, sensing her heartbeat accelerate as I textured my voice. My mother was in a burning building. She knew rescue for herself was impossible, so she threw her son out into the black night, with only her prayer that someone below would catch him.

Her hooded eyes narrowed as if against the desert sun, but she said nothing.

My mother believed she was throwing me either to safety or to death, I went on, feeling her heart pulsate. She knew her own life was already finished. She knew she would never live to raise me herself. All she could do was try to give me a chance. A chance at another life.

I felt her heartbeat slow as she accepted it all. Then I struck again:

But what my mother never knew was that she threw me into a fire worse than the one that finally consumed her. That fire took her body, but the one she threw me into took my soul.

That hit too deep for her to maintain the stony silence. Heat lightning strobed her dark eyes. My sons soul

Is not where you believe it to be, Aabidah Amatullah, I interrupted. May I tell you my story? My own story? Please? Then you will make a decision, as you did before. Whatever decision you make will be respected. Respected completely. Do you understand? Even if you choose to leave your baby with al-Qaeda, your husband will never, ever know.

She took that body-shot without flinching, shielded by her frozen silence. But her eyes crackled, a fuse burning down.

Please? I asked again.

She made an untranslatable gesture with her hand.

I made a gesture of my own. Michelle stepped in behind her like a gentle breeze, a comb and scissors in her hands.

* * *

I took a deep breath in through my nose, letting it all come into me until I was full enough to overflow. Id only get this one chance to tell my story, and I had to make it become the truth. I exhaled, felt my core, and lifted the curtain:

My mother gave birth to me when she was fourteen years old, I told the Princess, my voice very measured, as if fighting for self-control. Or perhaps even younger. I will never know, because I never saw my mother, not even for a second. I never tasted a drop of her milk.

I was born in the emergency ward of a charity hospital. My mother used a false name when she came in, and she fled, still bleeding, before they even realized she was gone. This is the birth certificate they made for me, I said, reaching into my jacket and offering her a piece of paper.

She gave it a quick glance, said: Anyone can

Yes, I agreed. Anyone can lie. I know. I should know. I have lied all my life. Especially to myself. That paper you hold says Unk in the space for Father. That means Unknown. The made-up name my mother gave the hospital was Brenda Burke, so I am Baby Boy Burke forever. A child without a name.

She blinked twice, steadied herself, then stepped back inside her silence.

The State became my father, I told her. In this world, some are born as powerful as gods, while some are born to be lower than dirt. This you already know. So, when my mother fled, I was placed in what you might call orphanages. Institutions for unwanted children, where every person who touches you knows you are less than nothing, without even a family to avenge you should they cause you harm.

My first memories are of screaming. I never stopped. Some children are adopted, but nobody wanted me. They put me in foster homes. Those are places where people are paid by the State to act as substitute families. Some of those families are sent from Heaven. And some would be barred from Hell.

Again she blinked rapidly, resettled herself, and maintained her silence.

In one of those families, I was raped. Yes, I said, catching the faint snarl before she suppressed it. I mean exactly what you are thinking: I was used as a woman. I was burned with cigarettes, made to do things I will not say in your presence.

After they were done with me, I was sent to a prison for children. There I learned the ways of the Outcast. And I embraced them.

That is where I was taught my religion, in prison. My religion is Revenge. That became my reason to live. And, later, my reason to take lives.

Any chance that she would get up and walk out was long gone. The air between us was vibrating with things I couldnt name, but always trusted.

I have committed murder, Aabidah Amatullah, I said, an unrepentant confessor. I have robbed, stolen, lied, and cheated. I have committed more crimes than I can count, sinned against every god. That is my life. A criminal is what I am, now and forever. Branded from birth.

A storm threatened to break in her eyes. Michelle kept right on with her work.

And this is also true, I told the woman across from me. I took a vow that I would never hurt a child, never commit a rape. And I have kept that vow. All I wanted from my life was to seek vengeance, again and again.

Once, I went to war against a group who preyed upon little ones. I stopped them just as they were about to sacrifice a baby. Hate guided my hand. In the exchange of gunfire, the child himself died. Yes, he would have died anyway. Yes, his death was instant, not the slow one they had planned for him. But, no matter what lies I have told myself ever since, I know I am responsible. The childs death is on my soul, forever.

Her eyes never left mine, but I could feel the subtle shift from a princess who had refused to be intimidated by a criminal to a mother who would not hesitate to kill to save her own child.

Only a short time ago, I finally accepted the truth, I went on. I had always believed that my mother had been a prostitute, and my father had been some faceless customer. I believed that my mother chose to return to selling her body. I believed that she discarded me, not caring that I might be delivered to tormentors. My heart could not contain my hate for such a mother, a hatred beyond the power of words to express.

The woman across from me blinked rapidly again, but she stayed wordless. She hadnt learned patience the same way I had, but she knew its value.

And now, I told her, now, when it is too late, I finally know the truth. My mother was no prostitute; she was a slave. She was not only my mother, she was also my sister. Do you understand?

Your father!?

Yes. Thecreature whose seed I carry, he began raping my mother when she herself was just a child. She was not his daughter; she was his property. Just as you are your husbands property.

When my mother learned she was about to give birth, she ran. Not for her life, for mine. When she left me in that hospital, she believed she was giving me a chance. A chance she never had, and never would. And then she went back to the life she had been cursed to live. She stayed in that fire until it swallowed her alive.

The woman across from me nodded. Not saying, I get it saying, I would do the same.

Maybe my mother dreamed of meeting me someday, I said, sadly. Maybe reading about me in the newspapers, hearing about some wonderful thing I had done. And she would say to herself, That is my son. He will never know that I gave my life for him, but I know, and that is enough.

Her mask wanted to crack, but she held it in place by the same force that had guided the maybe-mythical mother I had been telling her about.

I have spent my whole life as a criminal, I continued, now in a just-the-facts cadence. What saved me from becoming a vile monster was not my mother, it was my family. Understand me, please. I speak not of a blood family; my blood is so diseased from my fathers filth that I had surgery performed on myself to make certain I could never create a child.

The woman across from me made a sound without moving her lips.

I found a family, I told her. It took me a long time. The woman behind you, the one who is cutting your hair so expertly, she is my sister. She chose me; I chose her.

Our family was created at the intersection of our paths. I found love then. But I never stopped believing that it wasnt the government who had sentenced me to a life of torture as a childit was my own mother.

In prison, alone at night, I used to wish I could meet her someday. So I could tell her what she had done to mebefore I killed her.

A tear formed at the corner of the Princesss eye, but she still embraced her silence as if it was an amulet against evil itself.

Your son was taken by an al-Qaeda cell, I told her, switching too quickly for her to throw up a shield. A cell that has been planted here for years. Such men are much too valuable to be wasted on suicide missions.

My tone was without emotion, a tour guide pointing out exhibits.

I was back to pure truth. Pryce had delivered his little lecture about the banzai pilots sent to their certain deaths, as if those were the only planes the Japanese had. But the Imperial Navy also had a fleet of their infamous Zeros. Those sky-dominators were reserved for ace pilots, not human sacrifices. And those pilots werent sent out to die; they were sent out to kill.

The no-choice robots who dive-bombed the Twin Towers were unskilled labor. For top-level work, you need Zero pilots. Such men are not bound by the same rules as the expendables. If one of them feels like having a few drinks to relax after a hard days work serving Allah, so be it.

To a war commander, the higher the skill level, the higher the tolerance for off-duty conduct. Your best sniper has a preference for little girls, your top chopper-pilots hobby is rapeso what? Its your men theyre protecting; thats not just their job, its yours, too. Your only one. Always been that way; always will be.

You paid them to take him, Aabidah Amatullah, I said, careful not to call her by her title. In your mind, in your heart, you were throwing your child from a burning building. Yes, he might later die in battle, but he would die a man. A man, not the hideous beast your husband was training him to be.

Her sharp intake of breath was like a blast of luminol on bloodstains.

You knew all about that training, Aabidah Amatullah. And your mothers heart could never allow such filth to infect your son. Better a desert fighter than a prince, yes? Better honor than degeneracy.

You knew Allah would never accept your husband. He chose his life; he will have to answer for that choice. But to bar your son from Allahs grace, this you, his true mother, could never allow. So, you see, I do understand.

She still held her silence tight against the hideous spirits my words had let loose in that room.

But she bowed her head. Saying nothing, confirming everything.

But you do not understand. I spoke very quietly, every word leaden with grief. Mothers offer their children for adoption every day. That is often an act of heroism. They want another life for their child than the one they are doomed to themselves. But they can never really know, I said, thinking of how a creature who would be despised by jackals had adopted Lisa Steinberg years ago. And how not one damn thing had changed since then.

But there is no such mystery for your son, Aabidah Amatullah, I struck mercilessly. He will never become a warrior! No, he will be raised in fear and torture, as I was. Those who took him, they will bring their prize back to the training camps, and present him to the Taliban. Here is the firstborn male child of Prince Fazid el Kandal. What do you think will happen then?

She tried to freeze her face against the intrusion, but I could see every terror-frisson as it burst in her eyes. I leaned forward, thick sinuous venom now coating my voice as I opened the cage to let each terrifying word slither toward her.

What joy those who loathe everything your husband represents will feel as they castrate your son! His horrible screams when they shove a hot iron inside his body will be music to their hearts! And it will all be videotaped, so that those who dare oppose them can know the true meaning of terror.

She was shuddering with soundless sobs. I felt nothing. All I saw was an opponent. Against the ropes, bleeding. Close the show! I heard the Prof scream from ringside.

Your child can never be one of them, Aabidah Amatullah. If he livesand he probably will nothe will be used all his life by grinning perverts. His pain will be their ultimate thrill.

And each time they torture him, he will be told that his mother sold him into slavery to buy herself another diamond necklace. That lie will make him hate you with every sobbing breath he takes. Allah may forgive you. Of this, I know nothing. But your sonand this I do knowyour only son, he never will. This is inside me, this truth. Look for yourself, I challenged her.

She met my eyes. I watched as the unspeakable penetrated her heart. Her hands were soaking in some kind of lotion bowls Michelle had placed on the arms of her chair, but she wouldnt have moved anywayher body was in rigor.

I was empty. Couldnt even raise my hands to punch again.

It was so quiet I could hear my heart.

What other possible choice? she finally whispered.

Your son is still here, I whispered in return, knowing if I had been wrong about that she would have stopped listening a long time ago. I dont know how you contacted the al-Qaeda cell, and I dont want to know. But I know they didnt come over here just to take your son; they had another mission, a mission yet to be completed. So they are still here. And they still have Ghazi. They would not dare to harm him themselves. Such pleasures belong only to masters, not servants.

Your baby is worth a fortune to them if delivered untouched, Princess. He is merchandise, and the more pristine the condition, the higher the price, I said, watching the nightmare I was painting drain the blood from her face.

That gave me the strength I needed to strike again. Their reward for allowing their leaders to mock the name that your husband gave his son will be great. To them, they will have performed a holy actand will be well paid for it. But they cannot just ship your son out of this country. That takes planning, and planning takes time.

Only one thing can change this, Aabidah Amatullah, mother of Ghazi, I said, as if taking an oath. If you love your only son enough to tell me where they are keeping him now, he will be returned to you.

She raised her head, laser-lanced my eyes. And those whothose who have him, they will die?

No. They will be paid. Money is their only true god. You already know this. Why try to block that truth? They took your money, didnt they?

A ransom? And my husband would return to his

A ransom will be paid, yes. A fortune for those who took him, and their masters will never know what they did. But your husband will not pay this ransom.

As confusion glazed her eyes, I threw my finisher, putting everything I had left behind it: I swear this to you on all that is sacred. If you save your baby now, your husband will never poison his soul again. Never.

You are saying?

Yes, I said, not knowing if she would hear a threat or a promise in the word.

How do I know any of what you say is true?

You threw your son out of a burning building, into the black night below. I have let you see into that night. I have told you things no man says aloud, especially to a woman. Your blood is burning now. That is your heart, telling you the truth. You know it now.

I have shown you your sons future. That future sits across from you; it speaks through my mouth. Ask Allah if I lie. He will answer. Ask him now. If you truly want to save your child, you have been shown the way.

You might be hisemployee yourself.

If I was, you have already said enough to guarantee that the only person on this earth who truly loves Ghazi will die. You know what your husband would do with you. It would be a thousand times worse than the Haya.

She closed her eyes.

As Michelle worked on the Princesss shoulders, I reached deeper, enveloping her silently in the truth of my hate.

It seemed as though hours passed before she decided. I dont know who or what she was listening to when she finally spoke.

Her voice never quavered. The power of a mothers love ripped through every word of the address she spat out.

* * *

Police Operator 2193. Where is the emergency?

Right on the corner, just across from the

What borough are you calling from?

Borough? This is the City. The fucks wrong with you people?

Sir, it would help if you would stay calm, all right? We need as specific a location as you can provide. If you

Corner of Seventy-first and Third. Motherfuckers rolled up on this guy and just blasted him. He down on the sidewalk, blood all over, okay?

Personnel are responding, sir. If I could please have your

The caller hung up. No surprise to the 911 operator; happens all the time.

By then, calls would be flooding in from a dozen different locations within the same sector. Central Command might get the joke, but theyd figure it for professionals at work: a jewel heist in progress, a bank drill-throughsomething like that. When all you need is misdirection, you dont care which wrong direction your opponent picks.

But way before anyone could even start to analyze the pattern, the Prince would have covered the ground from his set-back door-way all the way down the path to the front gate, surrounded by his bodyguards. All he had to do was step on the sidewalk and climb into the waiting limo.

He was on three different kinds of visual as he strolled, every self-assured movement monitored.

Buttons were pushed.

One of them signaled Pryce.

* * *

The explosion blasted across the headlines. Seven lives lost. The Prince, five of his servants, and a jaywalking civilian.

But the papers were late with the news. Person or persons unknown had already sent a JPEG of the blast scene to Al Jazeera, with

plastered in see-through symbols across the face of the photo.

Whoever sent that JPEG was a champion cyber-slinger. The symbols had been embedded within the digitized image; any attempt to Photoshop them out would erase the whole thing.

Al Jazeera ran it as received. Maybe because theyre actual journalists, not the propaganda tools some say they are. Maybe because their attempts to remove the embed failed, and they knew if they didnt run it someone else would.

Maybe they just wanted to be first.

Not my problem. Let the al-Qaeda honchos argue over why whoever blew up a Saudi sheikh and his whole entourage had written traitor across the photo of the carnage.

In Hebrew.

* * *

There were only four of them there when we hit the place, Pryce told me three days later. Two survived. We extracted the baby, then waited for the others to show up.

That was a major cell, in place for years, well before the current administration took office. All kinds of expertise there; probably the very best they had.

Youre a patriot and a half, I said, knowing Pryce was just talking to thicken the fog. Taking out a few terrorists meant as much to him as the citizen jaywalker who died in the same blast that had blown up the Prince. Cost of doing business.

The Princess turned down our offer, he went on, as if I hadnt spoken. We could have hidden her and her son so deep nobody could have found them. But she said she wanted to go home.

You never know about some people, I said. Those soldiers of Allah, when you searched their hideout, you happen to find any booze around?

* * *

Clarence was gone for a while. Trying out his new passport on a trip to Trinidad and Tobago. He had something important to say to Taralyns mother.

* * *

We stayed low, but that was just out of habit. The investigation was a series of jurisdictional battles. Best way to prove it wasnt your fault was to be given the job of finding out whose fault it was.

It turned out like one of those nuclear-warfare child custody cases. You know, where the parents are bull elephants in mating season and the kids the grass that gets trampled under them as they duke it out.

What did finally come to light was instantly spun so many times by so many different reporters in so many different ways that youd get vertigo just from listening.

But why bother listening? Every Internet-twit knows theres only one place to find ultimate truth: they were waiting for the movie to come out.

* * *

Michelle told Clarence that only a red diamond would be acceptable. White was so totally yesterday. And nowhere near rare enough, either.

But, my sister, this one would cost

The Prof sadly shook his head at Clarences pitiful attempt to assert himself.

Get used to it, boy, was all the backup he offered.

* * *

White wasnt totally yesterday to Taralyn, not when it came to her wedding dress.

And the marriage was going to be in a church.

Michelle was only placated by the promise that she could go along to shop for the gown. And that she wouldnt have to wear a bridesmaids dress.

* * *

When the Prof walked Taralyn down the aisle on a fresh spring day, there were a lot of people in the church whose faces I didnt recognize. Taralyns mother, some of her family membersand a man with webbed fingers.

The reverend wasnt in the Profs class, but that didnt matter; nobody was there to listen to him.

Terry stood tall, bracketed by the Mole and Michelle. Flower glowed between Immaculata and Max. Mama had passed up Vera Wang for Susie Wongher Mandarin-collar jade dress shimmered from neck to ankles. And her eyes muted the whole outfit.

Rosie watched from Gatemans lap. Me and Gate wore matching suits. Only Clarence had been allowed to choose his own outfit, Michelle throwing him one last bone.

When the bronze limo pulled away with the new bride and groom inside, I knew none of us would be seeing Clarence for a while. And when we did, there wouldnt be a semi-auto under his jacket.

* * *

Its all done, son, the Prof said, just before sunrise. But I knew he was only talking about one piece of it.

I dont know whats next. I cant hear the whistle yet, but I can feel the vibrations through the tracks.

A freight trains coming, and Im going to hop it blind. I dont know what its carrying, but I know itll take me to where I need to go.

Another life.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andrew Vachss has been a federal investigator in sexually transmitted diseases, a social-services caseworker, a labor organizer, and has directed a maximum-security prison for aggressive-violent youth. Now a lawyer in private practice, he represents children and youths exclusively. He is the author of numerous novels, including the Burke series, two collections of short stories, and a wide variety of other material including song lyrics, graphic novels, essays, and a childrens book for adults. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and his work has appeared in Parade, Antaeus, Esquire, Playboy, the New York Times, and many other forums. A native New Yorker, he now divides his time between the city of his birth and the Pacific Northwest.

The dedicated Web site for Vachss and his work is www.vachss.com.

ALSO BY ANDREW VACHSS

THE BURKE SERIES

Flood

Strega

Blue Belle

Hard Candy

Blossom

Sacrifice

Down in the Zero

Footsteps of the Hawk

False Allegations

Safe House

Choice of Evil

Dead and Gone

Pain Management

Only Child

Down Here

Mask Market

Terminal

OTHER NOVELS

Shella

The Getaway Man

Two Trains Running

SHORT-STORY COLLECTIONS

Born Bad

Everybody Pays

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright Š 2008 by Andrew Vachss

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Vachss, Andrew H.

Another life: a Burke novel / Andrew Vachss.

p. cm.

eISBN: 978-0-307-37782-1

1. Burke (Fictitious character)Fiction. 2. Private investigatorsNew York (State)New YorkFiction. 3. Saudi ArabiansUnited StatesFiction. 4. Child molestersFiction. 5. ChildrenCrimes againstFiction. 6. KidnappingFiction. 7. TerroristsFiction. 8. New York (N.Y.)Fiction. I. Title.

PS3572.A33A755 2008

813’.54dc22 2008000213

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