"Three." A little girl's voice, faint.
Rocco bowed deeply, presented her with another dollar.
I tried again.
"One." Her voice stronger now, hint of a giggle underneath.
"Damn! You're good at this, Mary Beth. One more time, okay?"
"Okay." This time, I didn't have to strain to hear her answer. None of us did.
I tried two fingers. She was right on the money. Rocco made the delivery, happy to be spending my cash.
I took a breath. "Mary Beth, take off your glasses, okay? Let's try it that way.
She whispered something to Lily. I saw a grin spill across Wolfe's face and instantly disappear. The glasses came off.
I held up two fingers again.
"I can't see," the child said, her voice clear and firm.
"Try again," I said, holding my hand high above my head.
"I can't see anything."
Wolfe stepped away from the jury box. Walked around until she stood behind me. "Can you see me, honey?" she called.
"No. It's all a blur."
"Then you won't be able to see him either, Mary Beth. You won't have to see him, baby!"
The little girl's smile lit up the room.
11
Back in Wolfe's office, waiting for her to come back. Rocco waited with me, suspiciously patient.
"That was a slick trick, man," he finally said. "Where'd you learn stuff like that?"
"From them."
"Who?"
"The freaks. Child molesters, rapists, pain players…like that."
"You studied them."
"Up close," I said, giving him my eyes.
Wolfe walked in with Lola, another man next to her. Slim, handsome Spanish guy. Wolfe signaled to Rocco to take off. He acted like he didn't see the gesture— kept his eyes on me. "What's your name, man?"
"Juan Rodriguez."
The Spanish guy laughed. "So where's your cross, homeboy?" he asked me.
I held my hands out, showing him the backs were clean, no tattoos.
Rocco looked over at the Spanish guy. "What is this?"
"This cholo is fucking with us, bro'. He was a Mexican, he'd be a pachuco."
Wolfe sat down behind her desk, in command. Lit a cigarette, motioning for everyone to sit down.
"These are my people," she said to me. "I trust them, you understand?"
I nodded, waiting.
"I'm not going to be here forever. Things change, I want them to stay the same, you following me?"
I nodded again. No DA's office is free of politics. Wolfe had made a career of mashing rapists and molesters but she wasn't connected. So she wasn't protected. If she had to go someday, her crew would carry it on. The boss couldn't fire the whole lot of them.
"In or out?" she asked me.
"Do it," I told her.
She dragged on her cigarette. "Mr. Burke," she said, tilting her head in my direction, then toward each member of her crew, "this is Lola, my deputy [Cleopatra with the ankle bracelet], Amanda [the redhead], and Floyd [the Spanish guy]. Rocco's just come with us, a transfer from the Rackets Bureau. You've already met Bruno— he'll be back soon. The Spanish guy nodded in my direction— the others just waited.
The Rottweiler made a noise.
"And Bruiser." She laughed. Nobody else did.
"Mr. Burke has worked with this office in the past. Before some of you came." Looking at Rocco.
He snapped at the bait. "When?"
"Bonnie Browne," Wolfe answered, combing back her thick mane of dark hair with one hand, posture challenging.
I'd been looking for a photograph then. A picture of a little kid. He wanted his soul back. The photo was in a luxurious house in Wolfe's territory, the headquarters of a kiddie-porn ring run by a husband-and-wife team. Wolfe wanted the team— I wanted the picture. Her surveillance crew was on the job the night I went inside. When I left, there was a fire. They found the husband at the bottom of the stairs, his neck broken. The wife was lying on her bed upstairs, still dazed from the ether I'd rubbed into her evil face. The old bitch lived, and she'd ratted out a dozen others. A big case.
Rocco nodded his head. "That was you?" he asked me.
"Mr. Burke assisted in the investigation," Wolfe said, cutting him off. "He has a…limited relationship with this office. We understand each other."
Rocco wouldn't let it go. "You're a PI?"
"I'm just a working man. Once in a while, like Ms. Wolfe said, our paths cross. That's all there is."
Floyd's eyes found me through the cigarette smoke. "Burke. I heard about you."
"Did you?"
A faint smile played across his mouth. He bowed his head slightly in my direction.
I got up to go. "I'll fill them in," Wolfe said.
12
Balanced. Centered, back to myself. Back from the sweet illusion of family I left in Indiana. No more part of Virgil's family than I was blind.
Illusions can make you jump to conclusions. Like off a bridge.
I have no home. I pitch my tent on rocky ground, a nomad, never planting a crop. I live by poaching. Stinging, scamming, stealing. Always ready to move along when the herd thins out.
I walk the line, but I draw my own. Hit and run. I've been a ground-feeder ever since I got out of prison the last time. A small-stakes gambler in crooked games.
No more hijacking, no more gunfighting. The scores are richer in the penthouse, but it's safer in the basement.
That's what I want— to be safe. When I was younger, I waded in, throwing hooks with both hands, looking for that one shot that would take out the other guy. TKO in the first round. I thought that would give me strength, then. Keep me safe.
But it was me who kept going down. No more. Now all I want is to go the distance, be standing at the end.
Standing up.
13
I nosed the Plymouth into the one-stall garage at the corner of the old factory. The landlord converted it to living lofts years ago. Made himself a nice bundle from sensitive artists with rich parents. I live on the top floor. You look at the building plans, all you'll see is storage space up there. The landlord owed me for something I didn't do— my office is the price.
He could always start charging rent— make me homeless. I could always make a phone call, whisper an address— and the people his coke-loving son sold to the federales would make the little rat room temperature.
Pansy wasn't at her post when I let myself in the door. The beast was lazing on the couch, one massive paw draped over the edge, 140 pounds of brick-brained muscle, her light gray eyes flickering with just a trace of contempt.
"You glad to see me, girl?" I asked the Neapolitan mastiff.
She made a sniffing noise, like she smelled something bad on me. If I didn't know better, I would have thought the bitch copped an attitude because I'd worked with another woman.