Sacrifice (3 page)

10

W
e moved through the marble corridors in a loose diamond–shaped cluster: the thug taking the point, holding Bruiser on his leash. Me to the right, Lily beside me. Wolfe and Lola to the left, Rocco bringing up the rear.

In the center of the diamond, Mary Beth.

Courtroom K–2 was one floor up from the DA's basement. Empty.

Lily escorted Mary Beth to the witness chair. Lola took her place at the prosecutor's table. I sat in the defendant's spot, Rocco next to me. Wolfe stood by the jury box, one hand on the railing. The thug stayed by the door with Bruiser.

"It's your show," Wolfe said.

I took a breath, pulling up the calm, centering…so my voice would carry without cutting.

"Hi, Mary Beth," I called out. "Can you hear me?"

She nodded her head. If she said anything, I couldn't catch it.

"Let's play a game, okay?"

Nothing.

"Okay, Mary Beth? Come on, it'll be fun."

Lily leaned over and whispered something to her. The little girl giggled.

Lily nodded at me. I took a roll of bills out of my pocket, handed some singles to Rocco. He took them without a word, going along.

"Now, Mary Beth, my friend Rocco is going to hold something up. If you can guess what it is, you can have it, okay?"

"Okay." Soft, but audible.

"Don't hold up the whole fucking roll," I whispered to him. "One at a time."

He held up a dollar bill.

Mary Beth said something I couldn't hear.

"What was that, baby?" I called out to her.

"Money."

"That's right. You win."

"And you lose," Rocco said, jumping to his feet, walking over to the girl, handing her the cash. Making a production out of it, like a game–show host. Faint trace of a smile on the child's face.

"This is too easy, huh? Okay, Rocco, you stay there. Let's try something harder. Mary Beth, tell me how many fingers I'm holding up and you win again, okay?"

She nodded.

I held up three fingers.

"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

B
ack 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

B
alanced. 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.

"You want to go out?" I asked her, opening the back door to the office. Outside, a small iron fire escape, rusty and gnarled with age and neglect. From there, a shaky set of stairs to the roof. She ambled over and climbed up to her yard, ignoring me.

When she came back inside, I reached in my jacket pocket. Took out four orders of shish kebob in pita bread, individually wrapped in foil. They sell them on the street here. Along with watches, jeans, radios, necklaces, logo'd sweatshirts, street maps, handguns, videotapes, books, hot dogs, cocaine, flesh, and artwork. Pansy immediately whipped into a sitting position, slobber erupting from both sides of her gaping maw, watching me toss away the foil, squeeze the whole thing into a giant smelly, greasy ball.

"Still mad at me?" I asked her, holding the prize right in front of her snout.

She didn't move, rigid as a fundamentalist.

"Speak!" I told her, tossing it in her direction. Her first snap sent pieces flying all over the room. Her tail wagged madly as she chased down and devoured every last scrap.

I sat at the desk and watched her. When she was finished, she came over to me, put her bowling–ball–sized head in my lap, making gentle noises as I scratched behind her ears, blissed out.

They're all alike.

Sure.

14

I
leafed through my mail. It's not delivered here—I keep PO boxes all over the city, open new ones all the time. I'd never go back to the latest group once this collection of scores was done.

A dozen or so responses to my latest ad in the freak sheets. Darla's only ten years old, but she's real pretty. She loves to have her picture taken, and her daddy's real good at it. You tell Daddy how you want to see Darla posed, and he'll send along some really delicious Polaroids. Five hundred bucks gets you a set of four—custom work is expensive. No checks.

The first loving correspondent wanted Darla in pink ribbons—and nothing else. Another wanted to see Darla disciplined. I didn't read the rest, just carefully separated the money orders, put them in a neat stack to one side.

I mail the original letters to a Customs agent I know in Chicago.

He doesn't know me—I'm his mystery pal. A concerned citizen. The Customs people mail some porno they have lying around to the letter–writers. Then they bust them for possession. I keep the money orders for my trouble. Like a bounty.

Another batch of letters responding to my mercenary recruitment service.

More mail: applicants for membership in the Warriors of the White Night. One human handwrote a long letter along with his entry form. Told the Central Committee how eager he was to link up with real urban guerrillas who knew how to deal with the Nigger Menace. He sent cash—didn't want to wait the customary four weeks for processing.

There's a check–cashing joint in the Bronx that converts the money orders for me. Somebody comes around, they'll describe me to perfection. Black, about six foot four, 230 pounds, shaved head, razor scar down one cheek. Driving a gold Cadillac with Florida plates.

15

N
ot all
my mail comes to PO boxes. My personal drop is over in Jersey. One of Mama's drivers picks it up for me every couple of weeks, brings it to her restaurant. Max takes it from there, stores it at his temple until I come around. It takes longer, but it's safer.

That was the only address Flood had. For years after she left, I waited for a letter. I don't do that anymore.

Michelle's last letter was still on the desk. Shell–pink stationery, a fragrance to the ink.

It's not going to happen here, baby. You're the only one I can tell this to. I'll deal with Terry and the Mole when I make up my mind. Sorry if this sounds incoherent but it looks like your baby sister stayed too long at the fair, honey. I had the money. I still have it—they won't take it. All those years of scheming, risking…

I got myself a lovely apartment, right near the hospital complex. At least it's lovely now, once I got through with it. The psychological screening wasn't much of anything. I mean, I didn't tell one single lie until it got to the part about how I've been living these past years, do I have significant family support for sex reassignment surgery?—you know how they do.

I've been living as a woman. That's what they
say
they wanted, the hypocrites! But I've been a hustler all my life, ever since I escaped. And I didn't always work dry. I told a psychiatrist about my biological family once. I won't ever do that again.

Anyway, it all looked good. What happened is I failed the medical. I've been on the hormones too long, and those bootleggers I dealt with, they must have mixed and matched too many times. I remember how much it hurt when I started, how I got cramps I wouldn't wish on any of my sisters.

The doctor I asked back then, he said it was purely psychological, the pain—all in my head. Of course, he was a male.

Anyway, estrogens can contribute to clotting, they said, and I'd have to come off them before surgery. But if I stop now, stop the hormones, they said I could crash. I've been on them too long, with too heavy doses.

And when they asked me who did my breasts, I wouldn't tell them. The silicon's still holding up…I'm as beautiful as ever. But I was crazy once. Before you knew me. When I was so young and headstrong. I played around with some other hormones then. I wanted these poor boobs of mine to lactate, and I had to have
more
surgery.

Bottom line, baby: they won't do it! Too high a risk, they said. I'm all a mess inside.

God, like I needed some fool in a white coat to tell me that.

So here's my choices. I can come back, like I am. Keep taking the hormones. Even get psychotherapy if I want it. Above the table. That's one thing they gave me, I'm official now, the diagnosis is on paper. Pre–op transsexual.

But I learned some things from this. And there's one thing I know, baby, I can never go to jail. Not ever. I'd die first. So how do I live?

I'm trapped, and they won't fix me here. I can go overseas.

One of my shadow–sisters gave me a name of a hospital in Brussels, and I know it can get done in Morocco too. Casablanca. Only there's no Bogart for me.

I went through the hormones, the electrolysis, everything. All I wanted from these people was the final chop and some reconstruction. I don't need their simpleminded therapy. In my heart and my soul, I'm a woman. Your sister. Terry's mother.

I need some time. To see what's important to me. I'll let you know.

Watch out over my boy.

I love you.