Sacrifice (15 page)

83

S
he stopped in the aisle next to where I was seated, like she'd forgotten something. Never looked down.

"I need to talk to you," I said, just past a whisper.

"You know the Sun Bear bar. On Continental, just off Queens Boulevard?"

"I can find it."

"Seven o'clock," she said, walking away.

84

I
got away from the courthouse complex. Found a pay phone and went to work.

"My bread is upon the waters, mahn," Jacques said. "When a message comes back, I will reach out for you."

"Okay, thanks. Is Clarence around?"

"Yes, my friend. He is around
you.
Guard your health."

"Gardens," Mama answered the phone.

"It's me, Mama."

She waited, not saying anything. Hell, she's the one who taught me. "Is the boy there?"

"Sure, boy here. Good boy, helps Mama."

"Doesn't he have an appointment? You understand…?"

"Sure, understand. With the lady. Lady come here now."

"Every day?"

"Sure, every day."

"Okay, anybody call?"

"Your friend, say to meet him at car wash, tomorrow at seven. She didn't say who called. Didn't need to."

"Thanks, Mama." She hung up.

85

P
lenty of time. I found a Korean joint in Jamaica, combination greengrocery and deli. I was eating a bagel and cream cheese, sipping a cold Ginseng–Up, watching the owner's daughter test pineapples for ripeness by pulling up on the stalks. If the stalk comes out, the pineapple's ready to eat. The cash register had two sliced lemon halves on either side on the drawer. The clerk ran his fingers across the lemon's surface as he counted bills. Big sign by the register. NO CHANGE. A stocky guy with one of those small–billed painter's caps turned backward on his head came in, mumbled something about change for the bus. The counter–clerk pointed at the sign, said something in Korean. The guy kept pressing, raising his voice, sounding drunk. I came up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled on me, face snarled. "You got a problem?" I shook my head, smiled. "No," I told him, "I got change." I gave it to him. He swaggered out of the joint, sneering. A guy who knows the score—probably bets on pro wrestling. Before the clerk took the money for my bill, he slipped the revolver he'd been holding back under the counter.

86

T
he main branch of the Queens Public Library wasn't far away. I parked in the lot nearby, went inside. Used the InfoSearch computer to track down articles on Multiple Personality Disorder. There were a lot of them. Found a quiet place to myself. Killed some time.

The Sun Bear had little round marble tables scattered all around, long dark wood bar against one wall, blue smoke mirror behind. Wolfe was sitting alone, wearing a plum–colored sheath, black stockings, and matching heels with ankle straps. Her hair was tied up in a loose knot with a black ribbon around it. Man sitting one table away: sunglasses hooked over some gold chains resting on his chest, gold coin ring on his little finger. He shot back a cuff, checked his watch. More gold.

I walked up on Wolfe's left just as he approached from the right. Focused on his target, he didn't see me.

Wolfe dragged deeply on her cigarette, eyes straight ahead.

The man leaned over her table. "I wish
I
was that cigarette," he said, flashing a mouthful of caps, white against tan.

Wolfe took the cigarette out of her mouth. Looked at it carefully. "So do I," she said, looking right into his face. Dropped the cigarette to the barroom floor, ground it out with the tip of one shoe.

The man flushed red under his tan just as I pulled out a chair, sat down next to Wolfe.

He muttered something as he walked away.

Wolfe turned to me, smiled. "I think that man just called you a runt."

I ordered a ginger ale from the Japanese waitress. Wolfe took a beer.

"Nice job today," I said.

She shrugged. "The real work is always before the trial. You train to go the distance, sometimes it ends early."

"And sometimes, they add a few rounds at the end."

"What does that mean?"

"Two weeks… remember?"

"Sure."

"Things happen."

"Yes. Like babies getting killed."

"I know. I'm in the middle."

"No, you're not, Mr. Burke. You're nowhere in this at all. What's between Lily and me…well, that's a lot of things. But one thing it isn't—it isn't
you,
understand?"

"I didn't mean between you and Lily," I said. Mildly, to take the edge off her harsh tone. "I mean between two right things, okay?"

"There aren't
two
right things. There never are.

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Would you be willing to take a look—make sure it's always that way?"

"Take a look at what?"

"At some things I found…" Rushing ahead as her eyebrows went up. "I'd have to take you there."

"Just give me the address."

"I can't do that."

She lit another smoke, ghost of a smile curling around the filter in her mouth. "You want me to wear a blindfold?"

"No. I'd trust you."

Her eyes were a gray–green, set wide apart. "Let's do it with the blindfold," she said.

"I'll let you know. Soon."

87

I
was at Lily's a little past nine. The programs were winding down for the evening—the place was jammed with mothers and fathers picking up their kids. That's what they call whoever comes for the kids—parents. Biology doesn't count down here.

Max spotted me. Put a finger to his lips, motioning for me to come with him. He led me to the one–way glass on the side wall of one of the treatment rooms. Inside, Immaculata, in the lotus position, dressed in a loose white cotton outfit. Facing her a couple of feet away, Luke. Her arms gently parted the air, like she was conducting an orchestra in slow motion. The kid followed along, copying every gesture. Max tapped my shoulder, pointed at his stomach. Inhaled deeply through his nose, expanding his stomach. He exhaled sharply, in a steady, powerful stream, his chest growing as the air poured out. Yoga breathing. He pointed back into the treatment room. Luke had a blissful look on his little face as Immaculata pressed both hands against her midsection, exhaling as Max had done. Luke was with her, locked in synch.

Lily was in her office, talking at her daughter Noelle, the dark–eyed limit–tester. Noelle's around fifteen, couple years older than Terry. Lily snapped something at the kid, who responded by cocking her head the exact same way her mother does.

I stepped inside, lighting a smoke. Mother and daughter both made a face. "Hi, Burke!" the kid said.

"Hello, Noelle. How's school?"

"It's summertime," she said, like I was brain–damaged.

"Okay. Listen, I need to talk to Lily for a minute."

"Where did you get that suit?" she asked, ignoring what I'd said.

"Orchard Street."

"What's it made of?" Stepping over to me, fingering the lapel.

"I don't know."

"It doesn't look like anything."

"It's not supposed to, Noelle."

"Oh, ugh!" She was wearing black leather high–top shoes, white anklets with little red hearts on the cuffs, black bicycle pants to her knees, a gauzy white skirt over the pants, cheerleader–length, a black silk tank top covered by a red bolero jacket. Two earrings in one ear, no makeup, her glossy black hair cut in a radical wedge, jaunty white beret on her head. I was her father, I'd start stockpiling weapons.

"Noelle…" Warning note from Lily.

"I'm going, Mother." She looked at me again. Turned to Lily: "Could I buy Burke a decent jacket…something nice, so he'd have a look?"

A smile blossomed on Lily's face. "Sure, you want to waste your money.

Noelle pivoted like a ballerina, held her hand out to me. "Give me some money, I'll get something for you."

Lily chuckled. "How much money?" I asked.

"Oh…three hundred dollars, okay?"

"No."

"You want me to buy junk?"

"Look, I'm perfectly happy with what I got, okay?"

"Oh,
pul–eeze,
Burke. Your gear is seriously heinous. How about two hundred?"

"For two hundred, do I get something
stuupid
dope hype fresh?"

"Oh, you're so down there," she giggled. "Okay, two hundred."

"How about one hundred? And how about you leave your mom and me alone?"

She held out her chubby child's hand again. I put a couple of fifties in it.
"Thank you
so
much," she said, no sarcasm, just a trace of breathiness. Practicing, getting it right. Then she gave her mother a kiss and made a dignified exit.

88

"H
ow's it going?" I asked Lily.

"He's coming along. It's not something you can do in a week."

"I know. Not in ten days, either."

Lily put her elbows on the desk, nestling her chin in the V of her fists. "What are you saying?"

"I got an idea. Or the beginning of one, anyway."

"Before you play around with any ideas, you should look at this stuff," indicating a handful of paper covered with typing.

I looked a question at her.

"Treatment reports," she said. "From Teresa."

89

I
let Pansy out to her roof, made us each some supper while she took her pre–dump stroll. Then I sat down to read the reports. Had to hold the pages almost at arm's length to make out the words. I'd need reading glasses soon.

Hair fell into my eyes. I combed it back with my fingers. Seemed like they were sliding through easier than they used to these days.

The report was a war–zone dispatch—no overheated adjectives, no proposal writer's lies…cold truth. They were at the stage where they could call up the individual personalities, speak to them like they were different people in the room. I used the stuff I learned from the library like a Rosetta Stone, read it through.

Individualized Reactions to Psychotropics:

The core personality (Luke) was administered a single dose (1 1/4mg) Valium, PO. Within 45 minutes, subject was almost comatose, language was fragmented, dream–state, startle–response almost nonexistent, pinprick produced no reaction.

At session #6, subject hooked to IV, simple glucose solution administered. No reaction. Hypnosis brought "Satan's Child" to surface. Subject was in a rage, restrained by flex–straps. In this state, 10 mg Valium administered IV. No reaction: subject remained agitated, angry. When "Satan's Child" personality departed, "Toby" emerged…and promptly fell asleep. IV immediately discontinued.

Conclusion: The varying personalities are physiologically as well as psychologically distinct. The violent personality accesses significantly greater adrenaline flow, exceeding even limbic rage, producing phenomenal strength disproportionate to age and physical structure.

The report went on. More about "core personality" and "fusion goals." But every word sang the same song.

Inside Luke, different children.

One a monster.

90

I
nosed the Plymouth east on Houston Street, covering the distance from the West Village to the Lower East Side in minutes. Turned right on Ludlow, right again on Delancey, back the way I'd come.

The car wash is on the corner of Delancey and the Bowery, the supplies stored on the concrete island at the traffic light. I pulled over just past Chrystie Street, watching the action. Cars pulled up to the light, two black men detached themselves from the island, dipping their squeegees in a big white plastic bucket, swinging them briskly to throw off the excess water. They walked the line of cars, looking for customers. One tried persuasion—you could read his gestures from a block away. The other just went to work, ready to demand money when he finished. Some drivers turned on their windshield wipers, others waved their hands signaling "No!" Some just sat rigid behind the wheel, staring straight ahead.

I watched for a while. Cabdrivers never went for the windshield wash. Not truckers either. The washers were lucky to score one paying job every four, five lights. A bad time to work, early in the morning, dealing with commuters. Nobody was where they wanted to be.

Seven o'clock. I pushed off from the curb, watching for a gap in traffic. Rolled to a stop right at the light. The Prof was perched on an abandoned car seat, smoking a cigarette like he was on the deck of a cruise ship. He flicked the smoke aside, majestically got to his feet, moved to my car as one of the washers ceremoniously slapped a squeegee into his hand.

"Watch how it's done, son," the Prof sang out.

I hit the switch, sliding down the driver's window.

"Good morning, my man. Here's the plan: pay a buck and change your luck. Do something right and you see the light."

I handed him a bill. The Prof did the windshield in a half dozen expert swipes, bowed deeply, tossed the squeegee to one of the washers, and resumed his seat. I took off, straight ahead onto Kenmare, turned left at Crosby, and waited.

Halfway through my second smoke, the Prof slid into the passenger seat.

"Where to?" I asked.

"Head over to Allen, find a place to park."

91

I
found a spot just off Hester, pulled in behind a red Acura Legend sedan. A man in his thirties crossed the street, oiled muscles gleaming under a cut–down T–shirt, baggy shorts, baseball cap and sunglasses, zinc ointment covered his nose. Surf's up, somewhere. A battered pale green Cougar pulled to the curb. Two kids got out: teenagers, a boy and a girl, dressed alike in black, sporting matching asymmetrical haircuts. They wobbled down the street together as the Cougar roared off. Home from a night at the clubs? A dark sedan stopped at the light, overflowing with Vietnamese. The guy riding shotgun swiveled his head to look at me–I could feel homicidal eyes behind the sunglasses, measuring. Up close, he'd stink of cordite.

"What's up?" I asked the Prof.

"Queen Thana, schoolboy. Word is, you've been dancing with the devil."

"What word?"

"The drums hum, bro'. Stay close to the ground, you can hear the sound."

"And…?"

"And stay away, don't play, okay?"

"I'm not playing."

The little man's deep brown eyes turned to me. "I can't keep squaring your beefs, chief. You wanted to go play gunfighter games out in Hillbilly Harlem, I tried to make you see some sense, but I didn't press too hard, right?"

I nodded.

"This ain't the same, lame. The Queen is mean, Jack. She got people who
want
to die, that's no lie."

"I'm not in anything with them—I don't even know who they are."

"Don't be slick with the man who taught you the trick, schoolboy. Got to be, you holding something they want."

I lit a smoke, thinking it through.

"You talked to them," I said.

"We rapped across the gap, exchanged some ideas, like the UN."

"They lean on you?"

"That's not the way they do—I thought you knew. Just asked me to talk to you."

"Come on, Prof."

"You took something of theirs. They say, maybe you didn't know whose it was, okay? They want it back. Said to bring it with you when you come."

"Come where?"

"Man said they'll tell the dealer. Jacques. But you got to have it with you, understand?"

"Yeah." Thinking of Wolfe. How to get it back.

"I'll call, every day. Once in the morning, once at night. You get it, leave word. I'll set up the meet. Better if it comes from us."

"I'll try.

"Try
hard,
homeboy."