"Afterwards? Here's the truth…you won't know until you go."
I saw Wesley. In a fiery pit, the stare from his dead eyes chilling the air, the Devil backing into a corner, afraid.
118
I drove to the South Bronx by myself. Muddy Waters for a soundtrack. A live performance from the fifties, taped in Chicago. The Master, still fresh from the Delta then, getting it down right. Shouting about catching the first train smoking. Nobody in the audience thought he was planning to buy a ticket.
The last cut on the tape. "Bad Luck Child."
Terry let me inside, his small face animated with news.
"I got a letter from Mom. She's learning modern dance. She said she'd show me when she comes back."
"Yeah? She tell you to mind the Mole?"
"Sort of. She said to watch out for him. To go with him, when he goes outside but…
"But not when he goes with me, right?"
"Yes. But…"
"It's okay, Terry. I'm not taking the Mole anywhere. I just need to ask him some stuff."
119
The Mole was peering intently into a glass beaker the size of a mason jar, surgical gloves on his hands. I looked over his shoulder. A jet-black spider in a triangular web, a fat bulbous teardrop, glistening. The Mole slowly rotated the jar. On the spider's underside, a bright red hourglass. Black widow.
He took a pair of metal tweezers from his shirt pocket, plucked a piece of white spongy material from his workbench. The white stuff was maybe half the size of the nail on my little finger, a monofilament line strung through it. He took the screen off the top of the beaker, grabbed the line, held the white lump delicately poised over the rim, dangled it gently, slowly letting it descend.
I could feel Terry's kid-breath on my cheek as he pressed forward to get a look. The web trembled as the white lump caught. The spider's legs pawed, reading the vibrations.
Time passed. The spider worked its way toward the lump, confident. The Mole delicately feathered the line— the white lump struggled in the web. Suddenly, the spider shot forward, burying its fangs into the lump, forelegs grasping to immobilize its victim.
After a while, the spider released its grip. It began to exude webbing from its vent, starting to wrap the victim so it could later feast in peace. The Mole pulled up the line. The spider clung fast, refusing to surrender its prize. When the lump neared the top, Terry handed the Mole a can of compressed air with a long needle-nozzle. The Mole hit the button and the spider was blown free, falling harmlessly back to the floor of the beaker.
The Mole dropped the white lump into a petri dish, holding the line taut while Terry clipped it close with a pair of scissors. The Mole capped the petri dish, put it inside a small refrigerator, the last addition to a small, neat row already on the shelf.
"What do you want with black widow venom, Mole?" I asked him.
"Don't know yet."
"Yeah, okay. Can I ask you something?"
"What?"
"You know tinted glass…like they use in limos, so people can't see in?"
The Mole fiddled with some dials on what looked like a transformer they use for electric trains, ignoring my stupid questions. Waiting.
"Well, could you make it so it was reversed? So anyone could see in, but nobody inside could see out? Just the back, not the windshield?"
"Yes," he said. Meaning: sure, stupid.
"Could you do it, like…now?"
"Your car?"
"No. I need a car with…"
"Cold plates," the kid piped up. Michelle would have slapped him.
"Yeah. Just for maybe twenty-four hours. Less."
"With a barrier?"
"Yeah. Like, maybe, a gypsy cab or…"
"We have one, Mole. The old Dodge. Back in the…"
The Mole gave him a look. Terry stared right back. Finally, the Mole nodded. The kid ran upstairs.
120
I watched the Mole carefully measure the windows on the old Dodge, watched him cut the dark film with an X-acto knife, press it into place with a rubber block. Terry used a socket wrench to put on the new plates, changed the oil and filter, checked the battery, fan belt. Ran some kind of gauge on the ignition. "The tires are okay, Burke. But don't go too fast with it."
"It's not for a bank job, kid."
"Oh, I know." Wise little bastard.
When they were done, I walked around the car. From the outside, it looked like a gypsy cab, better condition than most, in fact. I climbed in the back seat. Sat down, closed the door.
Blackout. The Mole had even treated the Plexiglas barrier between the front and back seats with the same material. A blindfold with wheels.
"Perfect, Mole!" I told him.
He nodded, unsurprised. "Prisoner?" he asked.
"No. A volunteer. But they can't know where they're going."
He nodded again. Shambled off. I wasn't even finished with my cigarette when he came back with one of those gooseneck Tensor lamps. When he was done screwing it onto the shelf behind the back seat, you could light up the interior even with the windows closed. Terry removed the door handles and window cranks from the back seat, covering the holes with metal discs.
The Mole got a hose and a battery-powered vacuum. We cleaned it inside and out.
"Thanks, Mole."
He nodded again.
Terry jumped up and down, excited now. "Mole, can I…? You said when Burke came again…"
The Mole shrugged. Nodded again. The kid took off. The Mole held up his hand in a "wait!" gesture to me.
Terry came running back, a fat dirt-colored puppy in his arms.
"Burke! Look, isn't she beautiful!" Setting the puppy on the ground.
I knelt down, rolled the pup over, rubbed her belly. "She sure is, Terry. Where'd you get her?"
"She's Simba's…Simba's and Elsa's. She was born right here— the pick of the litter," he said proudly.
"Which one is Elsa?"
"The one who looks like a bull mastiff. When she went into heat, Simba wouldn't let any of the others near her…Mole explained it to me.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes. Do you like her?"
"Sure. She looks like a real tiger. What's her name?"
"She doesn't have one yet. She's for Luke, okay? Okay, Burke? Please? Mole said I could ask you."
"Terry…"
"Burke, he needs a puppy, he does. She won't be any trouble…she's real smart and all."
I lit a smoke, buying time. The Mole looked away like he was busy with something. No help.
"Terry, Luke's…sick now. He won't always be sick, but…he could hurt the puppy, kid. He wouldn't know what he was doing, but…"
Terry's eyes were his mother's then, Michelle's legacy blazing at me, never backing up. "He wouldn't! I know him too, Burke. I talked to him. He wouldn't."
"Look, maybe…"