I spent the next two days asking soft questions in hard places. Marking time until the week was up and I could return Bobby's Lincoln. I called him from a pay phone on Twelfth Avenue, near Times Square.
"It's Burke. My car ready?"
"Yep. Running like a watch. When's the last time that thing had a decent tune-up?"
"I don't know-didn't think it needed one."
Bobby made a growling sound in his throat-abusing good machinery made him crazy.
"You have any luck with that other thing?" I asked him, heading off a lecture on auto mechanics.
"Sure. No problem. Pick up your car this afternoon. About four, okay? We'll talk then."
"I'll be there."
"By yourself," he reminded me.
"I'll be the only person in the car," I told him. Pansy was going to get a ride in a Lincoln.
83
THE MASTIFF sniffed the Lincoln like it was an enemy dog-circling around a couple of times, pawing at the tires, burying her giant snout in the front seat.
"It's okay," I told her, but she took her time, getting it right. Finally, she climbed into the back seat, growled a couple of times, then flopped down. She was half asleep by the time I wheeled onto Atlantic Avenue.
It was just past four o'clock when I pulled up. This time it was Bobby himself sitting on the crate in front of the garage. He raised a fist in greeting, hitting a switch to open the door so I could pull the Lincoln all the way in. My Plymouth was parked just inside, nose aimed at the street.
"I could've painted it while it was here, but I figured you'd rather keep it the way it was," Bobby said.
"That's right, Bobby. Thanks."
But I wasn't getting off that easy. He insisted on taking me through everything he'd done to the car-piece by piece. "What you got here is a complete tune-up, Burke. Valves adjusted, points and plugs, carb cleaned and rejetted, timing reset. And we aligned the front end, rotated and balanced the tires. Changed all the fluids-power steering, transmission. Had to bleed the brake lines-you got silicon fluid in there now. Had to adjust the bands in the tranny too. It runs perfect now."
"What do I owe you, Bobby?"
Bobby waved my offer away.
"Let's hear how it sounds," I said with an enthusiasm I didn't feel.
Bobby twisted the key-it was so smooth it sounded like a turbine. Pansy recognized the sound-her monster's head appeared in the windshield of Bobby's Lincoln. He heard something, looked.
"What the fuck is that?" he asked me.
"It's just my dog, Bobby." I went over and opened the Lincoln 's door, slapping my hip for Pansy to come to me.
"Jesus H. Fucking Christ!" Bobby said reverently. "How much does it weigh?"
"I don't know-maybe one forty or so.
Bobby made a full circuit around Pansy, checking her lines. He didn't try and kick the tires.
"Could I pat it?" he asked.
"Pansy, jump!" I snapped at her. She hit the deck, lying prone, her murderer's eyes the color of the East River, watching Bobby the way she watches food. "Go ahead," I told him. "She won't do anything now.
Bobby had enough sense to squat down so Pansy wouldn't think he was trying to dominate her. He scratched behind her ears. "I never saw anything like this outside of a zoo," he said. Pansy made a gentle rumble in her throat-like a subway pulling into a station. "Is he mad?" Bobby asked, still scratching.
"No," I told him. "That's when she's happy."
"It's a girl?"
"Sure is," I said.
Bobby got to his feet. "The other guys are out back, Burke. Okay?"
"Okay. You want me to leave Pansy out here?"
"Fuck no," Bobby said. "She might eat one of the cars."
Bobby led the way, me following, Pansy taking the point position to my left and just slightly in front of each stride. She knew what to do now-she was working.
There was only one car in the back this time-the Mustang. And three men-two a few years older than Bobby, the other more like my age. They all had prison-faces. The older guy had a regular haircut and was wearing a dark sportcoat over a white shirt, sunglasses hiding his eyes. The other two were much bigger men, flanking the guy in the sunglasses like they were used to standing that way. One was blond, the other dark, both with longish hair, wearing white T-shirts over jeans and boots. The blond had tattoos on both arms-in case anyone could miss where he got them, he had chains tattooed on both wrists. Black leather gloves on his hands. The dark one had calm eyes; he stood with his hands in front of him, right hand holding his left wrist. On the back of his right hand were the crossed lightning bolts-the mark of the Real Brotherhood.
I stopped a few feet short of the triangle. Pansy immediately came to a sitting position just in front of me. Her eyes pinned the blond-she knew.
Bobby stepped into the space between us, speaking to the older guy in the middle.
"This is Burke. The guy I told you about."
The older guy nodded to me. I nodded back. He waved his hand back toward himself, telling me to come closer. I stepped forward. So did Pansy.
The blond rolled his shoulders, watching Pansy, talking to me.
"The dog do any tricks?" he asked.
The hair on the back of Pansy's neck stood up. I patted her head to keep her calm.
"Like what?" I asked him.
The blond had a nice voice-half snarl, half sneer. "I don't fucking know…like, shake hands?"
"She'll shake anything she gets in her mouth," I told him, a smile on my face to say I wasn't threatening him.
The older guy laughed. "My brother says you're okay. If we can help you, we will."
"I appreciate it," I said. "And I'm willing to pay my way.
"Good enough," he said. "What do you need?" "I know you," the blond suddenly blurted out. I looked at his face-I'd never seen him before. "I don't know you," I said, my voice neutral. "You were in Auburn, right? Nineteen seventy-five?" I nodded agreement.
"I was there too. Saw you on the yard." I shrugged. Auburn wasn't an exclusive club.
"You mixed with niggers," the blond said. It wasn't a question.
"I mixed with my friends," I said, voice quiet, measured. "Like you did."
"I said niggers!"
"I heard what you said," I told him. "You hear what I said?"
The blond rolled his shoulders again, cracking the knuckles of one gloved hand in the fist he made of the other.
"B.T., I told you what Burke did for me," Bobby put in, no anxiety in his voice, just setting the record straight.
The blond looked at me. "Maybe you just had a personal beef with those niggers?"
"Maybe I did. So what?"
"Maybe you like niggers?" It wasn't a question-an accusation.
No point keeping my voice neutral any longer-he'd take it for fear.
"What's your problem?" I asked him. That wasn't a question either.
The blond looked at me, watching my face. "I lost money on you, he said.
"What?"
"I fucking lost money on you. I remember now. You was a fighter, right? You fought that niggerI forget his name…the one that was a pro light-heavy?"
I remembered that fight. The black guy had been a real hammer in the ring before he beat a guy to death over a traffic accident. I don't remember how it got started, but it ended up with a bet that I couldn't go three rounds with him. I remember sitting on the stool in my corner waiting for the bell to start the first round, the Prof whispering in my ear. "Send the fool to school, Burke," he was saying, reminding me how we had it worked out. I was a good fifteen pounds lighter than the black guy, and quite a bit faster. Everybody betting on whether I could last the three rounds was expecting me to keep a jab in his face, bicycle backward, use the whole ring. Make him catch me. That's what he expected too.