"In here."
Bars on the windows, gray steel office desk, stacks of army-green file cabinets against the wall. The man behind the desk was younger than I expected. Deep tan, expensive haircut, heavy on the gel. Diamond on one finger, wafer-faced watch on his wrist. Manicure, clear nail polish. White silk shirt, tie pulled down. Suit jacket on a hanger, dangling from a hook on the wall.
"Mr. Morton?"
"Yeah."
"My name is Burke. We have an appointment."
"You got what you're supposed to have?"
"Yes."
He looked sideways at the bodybuilder. "You pat him down?"
"No, boss. I thought you…"
Morton glanced across at me, tapping his fingers. "Never mind," he told the bodybuilder in a disgusted voice. To me: "Put it on the table." Hard edge in his voice, looking me right in the eyes. Tough guy, projecting his image.
I had his image: lunch meat, on white bread. I reached in my pocket, laid the thick envelope on the desk.
"You got this straight from him? You look inside?"
"Yeah."
"How come? You don't trust the senator?"
"I didn't want to come up short. It wouldn't be respectful."
He nodded. "You know how much this costs?"
"I know what he told me. Twenty-five K."
"That's what's in there?" Gesturing at the envelope.
"In hundreds. Used, no consecutives."
"Okay." He took a nine-by-twelve manila envelope from the desk drawer. "You want to look?"
"No."
His head tilted up. "No?"
"I agreed to bring you an envelope, bring him an envelope."
"What if this one's empty?"
"It wouldn't be."
"Or else what?"
"You have to ask the man. It's not my business."
He lit a cigarette. "I know you. I know your name. I wouldn't want you to come back if the man was unhappy."
"Sure."
"What's that mean?"
"It means, you know my name, you know I'm not a chump. Like the senator, right? Don't jerk my chain. The pictures are in there. And the negatives. Not because you're worried about me coming back."
"Then why?"
"Only a fucking sucker buys pictures. We both know that. You got more. Or copies of the negatives. Maybe you'll never do anything with them, maybe you will. But it won't be soon."
"That sounds like a threat."
I reached in my pocket. The bodybuilder's mouth-breathing didn't change. He was a side of beef— couldn't guard his own body. I lit a cigarette of my own, blew out the wooden match with the exhale, dropped it on the floor. The manila envelope was fastened with a string wrapped around two red buttons. I untied the string, spilled the pictures on the desk. Eight-by-tens, black&white. Nice lighting, good contrast, fine-grained. Professional setup. The senator flat on his back, a girl riding him, facing the black calf-length socks covering his feet. Camera got both their faces nice and clear. Side-shot of the girl on her knees, mouth full. Long light-colored hair trailing down to her shoulders. Half a dozen others. Different positions. One thing in common: you could always see both faces. I smiled at Morton. "Melissa never seems to get older, does she?"
White splotches flowered under his tan. The hand holding the cigarette trembled.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
I dragged deep on my smoke. "Twenty-five grand. That wouldn't cover your investment, would it? How'd you work it this time? Pay off the clerk, get her a new birth certificate? Register her at some high school? Get her to visit the senator for some term paper?"
His cigarette burned his hand. He snubbed it out in the ashtray, concentrating like it was a hard task.
"Get out of here," he snapped. He wasn't talking to me. The beef left the room— maybe he wasn't so stupid.
The door closed behind him. I didn't turn around. Morton put his hands on the table. "What d'you want?"
"Melissa, she's been running this con forever. She's got to be twenty-two, twenty-three by now. She came to you, right?"
He nodded.
"Yeah, she knows how to work it. The senator, he's getting ready to announce for Congress. Make his big move. How old you tell him she was, fifteen?"
"Sixteen."
"Yeah. It's a nice scam. The twenty-five, that's good-faith money, right? You're a square guy, you turn over the pictures behind an up-front payment, he sends you the rest."
He nodded again.
"I figure it for a hundred large. Minimum. What's your piece?"
"Half."
"How'd she do it? You first?"
He took a deep, shuddering breath. Lit another smoke. "You know the Motor Inn? By the courthouse in Queens?"
"Sure."
"She was working the cocktail lounge. Not a hooker. I took a room there, waited for her until her shift was over. She must of run my plates. Sent me a picture in the mail. Just to show me how it was done."
"She didn't threaten you?"
"No. Said it would be an easy fifty grand. Maybe more, later. If the senator goes higher up the ladder."
This greaseball had about as much chance against Melissa as Charles Manson did of getting work release. I put the pictures back in the envelope. The negatives were in a separate wrapper. "You had a week since I called you. You asked around, checked me out?"
"Yeah."
"So you're not going to be stupid."
"No. Not twice."
"I'll take these to the senator. Far as I'm concerned, my job is over. Understand?"
"You won't tell him?"
"Fuck him. Why should I? You sting a senator, you're on my side of the street."
An oil-slick smile twisted his mouth. He nodded agreement.
I picked up the cash envelope. Stuffed it in my pocket. Got to my feet.
"Hey! You said…I was on your side of the street…"
"This is the toll," I said.
14
SOME GUY who knew more about adjectives than he did about the junkyard once wrote that the city never gives up its secrets. But it'll sell them.
I stopped at a light on Hester Street. Two men shambled up to the car, clutching filthy rags— the tools of their trade. Smeared dirt around the windshield, held out their hands to me, palms up. I reached under the seat for my supply of those little booze bottles they give away on airlines. A stewardess I know brings them home from work. Handed them each a bottle. Watched their faces light up as I cut out the middleman.
The newspapers call them "homeless." They don't get it. Today, the Grapes of Wrath come out of a bottle of Night Train.
I left the Plymouth in lower Manhattan. It didn't look like anything worth stealing, but I flipped the switches to make sure. There was twenty-five grand under the front seat.
Tail end of the evening rush hour as I walked down the steps into the subway tunnel. Both branches of the Lexington Avenue line pulled in at the same time. I opted for the 6 train, the local. The only advantage of having a seat on the subway is that your back is covered.
A legless man pulled himself along the floor of the train, his hands covered with tattered mittens. The upper half of his body sat on a flat wooden disc, separated from the cart by a foot-high column. So you could see he wasn't faking it. He rattled the change in his cup, not saying a word. Humans buried their faces in newspapers. I tapped his shoulder as he rolled by. Stuffed a ten-dollar bill in his cup. He pulled it out, looked it over. Locked my eyes.
"Thank you, my brother," he said. Strong, clear voice.
We always know each other, those of us missing some parts.
I got out at Seventy-seventh Street, walked west through the throngs of trendoid ground slugs toward Park Avenue. Found the senator's co-op. Told the doorman my name was Madison. He called up, told me to go ahead. The senator let me in himself.
"We're alone," he said. Like I cared.