Sacrifice (4 page)

16

T
he next morning, I took a short walk. Brought back the newspapers and a bag full of bakery for Pansy. Took my time, stretched things out. I read the paper the way I used to in prison, sucking every ounce of juice from the pages. It didn't bother Pansy—she has a dog's sense of time. Only two limits for her: never and forever.

It was almost ten by the time I entered the garage from the back stairs. A piece of paper torn from a yellow legal pad floated under the windshield wiper. Two broad slashes with a heavy black felt–tip pen, running parallel to a small circle at their base. The number 7 to one side.

Max. Telling me I should come see him right away. Telling me where. Not a sign of forced entrance to the garage. I'd offered him a key once—he thought that was funny. Max the Silent doesn't speak. Doesn't make any noise at all.

I found a parking place in Chinatown, just off the Bowery. Made my way to one of the movie houses standing under the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge. Narrow alley along the side. Back door, dull green paint streaked with rust. I turned the knob, not surprised to find it unlocked. Metal stairs to my left, winding up in a Z pattern. I put a hand on the bannister and two Orientals materialized. They didn't say anything. They worked it together: one watched my hands, the other my eyes.

"Max?" I offered.

They were as silent as he is.

"Burke," I said, pointing at myself.

One moved to me, ran his hands over my body, a light, spider's touch. He wasn't looking for a knife…anything less than a machine gun wouldn't do much good where I was going.

They stepped aside. I climbed to the landing, found another door, entered. Followed more stairs, this time up.

Another door. I opened it to a long, narrow room with a high ceiling, lit by suspended fluorescent fixtures. I was facing a row of windows, pebble–glassed, caked with a hundred years' worth of yellowing cigarette smoke. The floor was broken into sections with neatly painted areas: a square, a rectangle, a circle. One wall was lined with weapons: Japanese katanas, Thai fighting sticks, Korean numchuks, throwing stars, kongos. It wasn't for show—in this joint, you checked your carry–weapons at the door. The other wall was mostly Orientals with a light sprinkling of roundeyes, black, brown, and white. Men and women, young and old. No mirrors, no mats, no stretching bars. A combat dojo—bring your own style.

Max moved in next to me, his hand on my forearm. I followed his lead to an empty space along the wall. A short, fat man stood in the center of the rectangle, bent at the waist, the back of his right hand at his hip, the other extended, wrist limp, fingers softly playing as if in response to air currents, almost a parody of effeminacy. He looked like a soft dumpling—nobody'd step aside for him on the street.

A slightly built young man stepped onto the floor. Bowed to the fat man. Moved in small, delicate circles, his body folding into a cat stance, front leg slightly off the floor, pawing. Testing the water.

The fat man stood rooted, only his extended fingers in motion, as though connected to the younger man by invisible wires. All balance centered deep within his abdomen, keeping his point.

The young man faked a sweep with his leading foot, flashed it to a plant, firing off a back kick with the other leg. The fat man made a whisking motion and the kick went off the mark—a motion–block too fast for me to see.

The fat man was back inside himself before his opponent recovered. He waited—the sapling facing the wind.

The young man tried again…drew blanks. He threw kicks from every angle, went airborne once…but the fat man deflected every attack with the extended hand, never moving from his spot.

The younger man bowed. Stepped off the floor.

An ancient man in a blue embroidered robe stepped to the border of the rectangle. Barked out something in a language I'd never heard before. I didn't need a translator: "Who's next?"

I glanced at Max. He put three fingers against my forearm. The young man hadn't been the first to try and penetrate the fat man's crane–style defense.

I held my left hand at an angle, parallel to my shoulders, in the middle of my chest. Moved my right hand into a fist, swept the left hand aside, smacked the fist against my chest off the carom. Opened my hands in a "why not?" gesture.

The warrior's mouth twitched a fraction, quick flash of teeth behind the thin lips. Pointed toward the floor.

A behemoth stepped into the rectangle, his glossy black hair woven into the elaborate set of the sumo wrestler. Looked like an old oak tree, sawed off halfway up. He bowed to the fat man, dwarfing his opponent. The knife hadn't worked—they were going to the club.

The sumo crouched, snorted a deep breath through his nose, trumpeted his battle cry, and charged. The fat man flicked his extended wrist, spun in place with the rush, and lashed the back of the sumo's head with an elbow as he went past, driving him into the far wall.

The wall survived the impact.

The sumo rolled his shoulders, waiting for the battle music in his head to reach crescendo. His eyes turned inward and he charged again. The fat man's left hand fluttered, a butterfly against an onrushing truck, extended fingers darting at the sumo's eyes. The sumo's fists shot up toward the fat man's face just as the fat man's right hand came off his hip, a jet stream striking the sumo's sternum. The bigger man stopped like he'd hit the wall again. The fat man fired two side kicks into the same spot, snapped back into the circle stance before the sumo could react.

The sumo bowed to the fat man. All around the room, everyone was doing the same.

A dozen languages bubbled in a rich broth. I couldn't understand any of them. Max couldn't hear them. But we both got the message. The ancient man stepped forward again. Said something, pointing to Max.

The Mongolian folded his arms, eyes sweeping the room, measuring. He nodded his head a bare fraction. It was enough. The room went quiet as Max walked into the rectangle.

He was wearing loose, flowing dark cotton pants and a black T–shirt. He bent at the waist, pulled off the thin–soled shoes he always wore, no socks. Bowed to the fat man.

Max stood rigid as steel, vectoring in. The fat man was a master of some form of aikido. He would not attack. Balanced in harmony, he would only complete the circle.

Max bowed again. Extended his own hand, fingertips out.
Ki
to
Ki.

The hair on my forearms stood straight up from the fallout.

Max slid forward into a slight open crouch, rolling his head on the column of his neck. The fat man waggled his fingers, still into his stance, waiting. Max stepped forward as if walking on rice paper, working his way into the zone. He moved to his left, testing. The fat man's hips were ball bearings—he tracked Max, locked on to the target.

In the space between two heartbeats, Max dove at the fat man's feet, twisting into a perfect forward roll even as the fat man flowed backward—too late. Max was on his back, both feet piston–driving in a bracket at the fat man's body. One missed, the other was a direct hit to the belly. The fat man staggered as Max rolled to his feet, the Mongolian's right fist hooking inside the fat man's extended hand, driving through, spinning, his back against the fat man's chest as he turned, launching the left, chopping down into the exposed neck.

It was over. The fat man held his hand against the strike–point, rubbing the feeling back into his neck. It wasn't broken—Max had pulled the shot.

They bowed to each other. Barks of approval from the crowd. Max pointed to the fat man. Held up his hand, fingers splayed. Touched his thumb, pointed to the fat man. Then his index finger. Same thing. He did each finger in turn, until he came to the little finger. Pointed at himself. Held his chest, panted heavily. Pointed at himself again—held up the thumb. Pointed at the fat man. Held his opponent's hand in the air. Telling the crowd that the fat man had fought four men before Max had his chance—if Max had gone first, the fat man would have won.

I was proud of the lie—so proud to be his brother.

17

N
obody clapped Max on the back on the way out of the dojo. It wasn't that kind of joint.

The warrior touched the face of my wristwatch, moved his hand in a "come on" gesture. Wherever we were going, we were running close.

In the car, Max made the sign for SAFE. Lily's joint on the edge of the Village.

I made a "what's going on?" sign. He held up one finger. Patience.

We motored through Chatham Square. A flock of gray pigeons clustered around the monument set in a tiny triangle of concrete at the intersection of East Broadway and the Bowery. A white pigeon landed in their midst, bulling his way through to the best scavenging. A hard bird, honed by the stress of survival in a world where his color marked him.

18

I
stashed the Plymouth in back of Lily's place, followed Max inside. Her office is at the far end of the joint. The door was open. Lily was at her desk, her Madonna's face framed by the long black hair. Another woman was with her, a young woman with dirty–blonde hair, big eyes, a sarcastic mouth. Sitting straight in her chair with an athlete's posture. Maybe eight months pregnant. They were deep in conversation. Max clapped his hands—they looked up.

Max bowed to the women, they returned his greeting. He held up my wrist so they could see the watch.

"Thank you, Max," Lily said. "Right on time."

"What is this?" I asked Lily.

She ignored my question. "You know Storm, right, Burke?"

"Sure." Storm was the head of the Rape Crisis Unit at the downtown hospital. Another of the warrior women who made up Lily's tribe. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They're all some kind of sweet, and they can all draw blood.

"You really want to know?" Lily asked Storm. "You're absolutely sure? Burke's never wrong…about this."

Storm nodded.

"Show him," Lily said. Storm extended her hand, palm up.

I sat on the desk, held her palm in my hands. "This is the hand you write with?" I asked her.

"Yes."

I looked closely. Saw the clear triangles emerging from the lines. Like the gypsy woman told me a long time ago. Intersecting triangles for female, open spikes for male.

"It'll be a girl," I told her.

"Good!" Storm said. Then: "Thank you. I didn't want the amnio, but Lily just had to know. It was making her crazy."

I lit a cigarette. Lily made a face. Storm smiled. She smokes too. One cigarette a day, usually right after supper. No more, no less.

"What's the rest of it?" I asked Lily.

"How do you know there's more? Don't you think Storm's question was important?"

"
Storm
doesn't even think it's important," I said. Watching her eyes, knowing I was telling the truth. "And Max wouldn't have a tight time limit for what I just did."

"I'll show you," Lily said.

19

T
he small playroom has a window of one–way glass—it's a mirror on the inside. I looked through it and saw Immaculata, her long hair done up in a severe bun, wearing a bright orange smock. Max's woman, part Vietnamese, part she'll–never–know. I was there when they met. In the fallout from combat. A chubby baby crawled on the carpet in one corner. Flower, their little girl. Named for another little girl. One who hadn't survived. A tribute to Flood, the little blonde
karateka
who fought to avenge the baby's death. And left when her work was done.

Left me.

Half a dozen kids in the playroom. Running, jumping, scrawling with crayons on a giant piece of white poster board.

"That's him," Lily said at my side. "He's talking to Mac now. Luke, his name is."

The boy looked about eight. Light brown hair, thin face, dark eyes. He was holding a pocket calculator in one hand, pointing at the display window, like he was explaining something.

I felt Storm slide in next to me on my other side. "The police found him. In a room with his baby brother. Two years old. The baby had been hacked to death with a butcher knife. There was blood all over Luke, but he hadn't been touched, just a few surface scratches."

"His parents?"

"They weren't home. Left him in charge of his brother. Said they were only gone a few minutes."

"Anyone popped for it?"

"No. No arrests. No suspects, even."

"We don't treat only direct child abuse victims here," Lily put in, anger edging her voice, like I was a politician questioning her program. "Children who've witnessed horrible violence to a loved one…a rape, a murder…they're as traumatized by it as if it happened to them. That's why Luke's here."

"He lives at home?"

Storm answered me. "No. His parents were convicted of inadequate guardianship. Turns out they were gone almost two days, not a few minutes like they'd said. And they were very secretive, hostile. Wolfe's unit found out the dead baby wasn't really theirs. Not legally theirs. One of those private placement adoptions, but it never went to a court. The lawyer who handled it got indicted for baby–selling. Luke's been in foster care for about two months."

"And you still don't know who killed the baby?"

"Wolfe says she knows." Something in Lily's voice.

"So what's for me?"

"Last week, we had a TV crew here. They were filming a documentary about child abuse. We gave them permission, under strict conditions. Told them which rooms they could work in, which rooms to stay out of. One of them, this real smart young man, some producer–something–or–other, he took a cameraman into the back, where Luke was playing. When Luke saw the camera, he went catatonic. Froze. The paramedics stuck a hypo in his arm and he didn't even flinch."

"What happened?"

"He came out of it. Maybe an hour later. When I told him he'd been in a trance, he got very angry. Denied the whole thing. Even told us what he'd been doing during that time. Like it never happened."

I watched the kid, adding it up.

"Burke, you know what it means, don't you?" Lily asked.

I ignored her question. "Can I talk to him?"

"Let's try," she said, opening the door to the playroom.