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"I got a grandson. Derrick. My daughter's child. He almost four years old. My daughter on the Welfare, lives in that hotel out by the airport. Her man is a vicious beast. Beat her all the time, take her check. He beat my grandson too. For nothin'. Right in front of my eyes. I go to stop him once, an' he punch me right in my face. Broke this bone, right here." Touching her face, eyes focusing on me now.

"Monday my daughter calls me. Says her baby run away. I tell her, how could that be?— he too small to run away. She cryin' and all, says the police there. Ain't nobody seen her man. My Derrick is gone."

A tap on my shoulder. Jacques's man, handing me a pack of cigarettes. I slit the cellophane, took one out. The man handed me a paper packet of matches— I fired one up.

Jacques leaned forward. "We found the man, Burke. Talked to him. He say he knows nothing. Okay. We talk to the girl too. Same story. It is a story, mahn. Finally, she tells us the man took the baby out of there, said he's going to give the child to another woman of his."

I dragged deep on the smoke. Still waiting.

"What we need is a man to look, Burke. Look around."

"Why me?"

"It's what you do, mahn. Your work, like I said. People know, word on the street— Burke looks for runaways, yes?"

"The baby didn't run away."

"I know. This good lady here, she is one of us. Like a mother, always to help, that is the way she is. She wants her grandson back."

"Why don't you ask the man? Ask him again."

"He has vanished, mahn. We are looking for him, but…for now, until we find him…"

"It's a long shot."

"I know, mahn, but…"

"Obeah," the old woman said. Like it explained everything.

"Why do you say that, ma'am?" I asked her.

"That is what I heard, white man. You know them?"

"No."

"Her man, Emerson, that is his name. He is with those people. I think that is where he take my grandson. To be with them too."

"You take a look, mahn?" A soft undertone in Jacques's voice, the sun banked.

"A quick look," I warned him.

"Clarence will go with you," he said, nodding at the young man who met me in the parking lot. "In case there is a problem with any of our people, yes?"

"So long as he listens."

"Clarence, for this work, Burke is your boss, you understand? Like it was me talking. I told you about this guy. You listen, and you learn."

The slim young man nodded agreement.

"We have anything else to discuss?" he asked. Meaning: how much?

"We'll settle at the end," I told him. "No guarantees. Clarence has all the information?"

"I have it all." Clarence's voice, gentle and calm.

"Let's do it, then," I said.

26

"We'll take my ride," Clarence said, standing in the parking lot.

"I'm not hitting Queens in a posse car, son."

"Posse? No, mahn, we will go in my car. A true West Indian car. Wait here."

He pulled up in an immaculate Rover 2000 TC, British Racing Green. I climbed inside. The black leather smelled new, the walnut trim gleamed. Clean and spare, letting the craftsmanship show.

"Very fine," I congratulated him.

"This is my baby," he said, flashing a quick smile.

27

On the way over, I read through the contents of a thick manila envelope Clarence handed me. All the police reports, a complete package, even the SSC records. SSC, Special Services for Children, the agency that investigates child abuse. It used to be called BCW, Bureau of Child Welfare. Now they call it CWA, the Child Welfare Agency. That's a politician's idea of social change— change the names. You can tell when someone first got stuck in the net by the name they call it. Same way you can tell how long a man's been in jail by his prison number. I didn't ask where Jacques got the records.

We took Atlantic all the way through East New York, turned left on Pennsylvania to the Interborough, found the Grand Central. Clarence pointed the Rover's nose to La Guardia.

We exited at Ninety-fourth Street, crossed over the highway. The hotel was a long, thin rectangle, the narrow piece fronting the service road to the highway. Clarence pulled in the back way. Plenty of parking.

"She's inside. Still lives here. You want to start with talking to her?"

They don't let you stay in those hotels once you lose your meal ticket— maybe the Sherlocks at SSC thought the baby really had run away on his own. "Let's wait a minute," I told him. "Get the smell."

He nodded agreement. I lit a cigarette— Clarence tensed, like something was going down. I pulled out the ashtray— it was a virgin. I rolled down the window, blew the smoke outside, felt him relax.

A corroding van sat diagonally across from us, grounded on four flat tires, an indistinct figure behind the wheel. An orange BMW approached. Stopped. Man on the passenger side stepped out, went over to the van. Money showed. A hand extended out of the van, a Ziploc bag held aloft. The streetlights caught the vials of crack inside, sparkling. Street diamonds.

"Rastas," Clarence said. Yeah. Ganja for fun, hard stuff for money.

A dog barked, close by.

A woman staggered out the side door, high-yellow complexion, wearing white shorts and white spike heels, her makeup as sloppy as the cheap wig sitting lopsided on her head. She stumbled, one hand against the wall to guide her.

"Crack whore." Clarence's flat, uninflected tour guide voice.

Four boys came out the same door, wearing black vinyl jackets draped to their knees. They swept the street with hard looks, challenging. The leader crossed over to us, the others flanking out behind. He stopped in the street, waiting. Clarence watched him the way a gorilla watches a jackal. I'm a vegetarian, you understand, but if you insist…

The leader veered to his right, moving off, shooting a last warning look. Clarence held the automatic calmly against his thigh, looking nowhere special.

28

The security guard at the door was a careful man, watchful that no visitor meant him harm. The tenants had to look out for themselves.

"Room 409," Clarence said, letting me lead the way. The same way you did in the jungle: point man on the alert, next man up with the heaviest firepower.

The stairs smelled of human waste. A large pile of it was on the second landing, wearing a blue-and-orange Mets baseball cap with matching jacket. He completed the ensemble with a regulation Louisville Slugger.

"What you want here, whitey?"

Clarence slid in next to me, pointed his 9mm automatic at the pile's face. "Business," he said, soft-voiced. "Maybe business with you. What you say, mahn?"

The bat clattered as it bounced on the concrete floor. The waste pile backed away, mumbling something.

Carpet runner on the corridor floor as thin as stockbroker's ethics. The walls were beige filth, the doors the color of starving roses. Numbers scrawled on their faces with black grease pencil. Murky light fell in spotty pools, most of the overhead fixtures wrecked— pre-mugging preparation.