Hard Candy (6 page)

30

I
DROPPED the Prof off at the edge of the Village, turned the Plymouth toward Chinatown. Max spread his hands, asking me "What?" I shrugged. I pulled over to the curb when we got near the warehouse where Max had his temple. His face was a mask, staring out the windshield to some other place. His hand dropped on my forearm, a leather–colored bone sculpture, a ridge of horned callous raised along the chopping edge, the first two knuckles enlarged, a white slash across the back from an old razor scar. He wasn't going to move. I turned to see what he wanted.

The mute Mongolian took his hand from my forearm, tapped two fingers against my chest. Where my heart would be. He put his fingertips together, elbows extending in a straight line. Slowly opened his fingers, tilted his face up. Sunlight? I looked a question at him. He went through the whole thing again. He wasn't getting through. A thick finger drew a cross in the dust on the dashboard. I watched. He put an arrow at the top of the cross. A compass? He extended the right–hand line of the cross all the way to the end of the dash. East? He made the gesture again. I nodded. The Rising Sun. Japan. I said her name. Flood. His hands came together in a prayerful gesture. Pointed at me. At himself. Extended his arms in a child's gesture of an airplane banking through the sky. We could go to Japan. Find her. Bring her back.

I shook my head. No. Again.

He bowed slightly. The way you do before the fight starts. Opened the door and he was gone.

31

W
HEN I GOT to the junkyard, Terry let me in. "They're fighting," he said, leading the way back to the bunker.

The Mole was a sodden lump, seated on one of the cut–down oil drums he used for chairs. Elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. His coveralls were so dirty they worked like camouflage—his dead–white face looked suspended in air, light shifting on the thick lenses of his glasses as he followed Michelle's swooping circles around him. She was wearing a white raw silk coat that reached past the tops of her black boots. A black cashmere turtleneck sweater and black slacks that puddled over the tops of the boots. Long strand of pearls around her neck. Her hand flicked them back and forth as she snapped at the Mole. Simba sat next to the Mole, head cocked, ears flared. Fascinated.

She whirled as we came into the clearing, hands on hips.

"Stay out of this, Burke."

"I came to see Mole," I told her.

"You'll see him when I'm finished with him."

"Mom…" Terry started.

All the hardness went out of her face. "This doesn't concern you, sweetheart. You know the Mole and I argue sometimes. Soon as we're finished, I'll let you take me out to dinner in town, okay?"

The Mole's head swiveled toward me. "She wants to have the operation."

"Mole!"

"You think the boy doesn't know?"

It went quiet then. I lit a cigarette, waiting. Terry went over to Michelle, took her hand. "It's okay, Mom."

She kissed him hard on the cheek. Pulled away from him. Walked right up to the Mole, leaned into his face. "It's me. I waited for this. I know I kept talking about it, but now's the time."

"It's dangerous."

"It's
not
dangerous. You think this is like a coat–hanger abortion? They know what they're doing."

His head swiveled to me again. "She wants to be a citizen."

"I know."

"None of you know."

The Mole's eyes were liquid pain behind the glass. "You can't live out there, Michelle. It's not for you."

"You just don't want to lose Terry. How selfish can you be, Mole? You want him to spend his life in this junkyard? Never go to school?"

"I go to school, Mom," the kid said quietly.

"Oh, sure you do, honey. I'm sure you know all about tapping telephones and beating burglar–alarm systems. Maybe someday the Mole will teach you how to blow up buildings."

The Mole's head came up. "Tell her," he said, his voice rusty. He didn't use it much.

Terry tapped Michelle's hand, making her look. "Mom, I study physics. And chemistry. And math. I do. Ask me anything. Burke got me the textbooks for all the first–year courses at college. Mom, I
already
know the stuff. Mole is the best teacher in the world."

"And what are you going to do with all this knowledge, baby? Go to med school?"

"I don't want to go to medical school."

"No, you want to live in a junkyard with this lunatic. Well, you're not."

"Mom…"

"Don't 'Mom' me, Terry. You want to end up like Burke? You like the idea of going to prison?"

"The Mole doesn't go to prison."

"Ask him why. Ask your
teacher
why he didn't go to prison."

"I know why, Mom. I know Burke took the weight for him that time in the subway tunnel. Mole told me all about it. That's what family does."

"That's what good
criminals
do, honey."

"That's the rules."

She grabbed the boy by his shoulders. Shook him roughly. "I know all about family. My biological parents taught me very well. They weren't family, so I picked my own. And we picked you. All of us, not just the Mole. You're not growing up in the underground. You're not going to spend your life like this."

Tears ran down the kid's face but his voice was steady. "I lived with them once. The citizens. Remember, Mom? Remember how you found me?"

Michelle dropped to her knees in the junkyard, clutching the boy's legs, crying. He patted her head gently, whispering to her. The Mole moved away. I followed him.

"It's not safe" is all he said.

"The operation?"

"The boy. He can't live out there. Maybe Michelle could. Go back and forth all the time. It's not right to split him like this."

We walked through the twilight, jagged shadows spiking from the cannibalized cars. I moved between two of the cars. Stopped short when I heard a snarl. A white pit bull was lying against an old Cadillac, tiny squealing puppies nursing underneath her. Even Simba stepped around her.

"I never saw a pit bull here before. I thought they were all dog fighters."

"Terry found her. They were fighting dogs on the other side of the meat market…you know just past where the trucks pull in?"

"Yeah."

"She lost a fight. They left her there to die. We fixed her up. Now she's part of the pack."

"Like Terry."

He didn't say anything for a while. I lit another smoke. We made a wide circle, giving Terry and Michelle plenty of time.

"The boy knows Hebrew too," the Mole said, defensively. I dragged on my cigarette, remembering the boy's Bar Mitzvah.

The kid already knew how to blow up buildings.

32

W
HEN WE got back to the clearing, Michelle was perched on the Mole's oil drum, a fresh blanket beneath her. The boy was sitting on the ground, her hand on his shoulder. They were waiting for us.

The Mole went into his bunker.

"I'm still having the operation," she told me, defiance lancing through the fear in her voice.

I bowed.

A half–smile played across her lovely face. She patted Terry's shoulder. "Sweetheart, just tell me you don't want to be like Burke—that's all I ask."

"I want to be like Mole."

"Honey, the Mole's a genius. I'd never take that away from him. And he's a wonderful man in many ways. I know he's taught you a lot. And I know he loves you, although I'm sure he's never told you."

"He told me. He said he was proud of me."

"I know, baby. But…to live like this. You'll be a man soon. The Mole…I mean, you want to live out here? Never have a girl of your own?"

"I'll have a woman, when I'm ready. A mate. Like the Mole said. A man has to have a mate."

"But the Mole…he doesn't…"

"Mom, I thought
you…"

It was the first time I ever saw Michelle blush.

33

W
E WERE crossing the Triboro Bridge before Michelle spoke.

"You think the Mole feels that way about me?"

"You know he does. Always has."

She lit one of her long black cigarettes. "He never said…"

"Neither did you."

I hooked the East Side Drive, high–rise lights flashing past us.

"You miss her?"

"I'll always miss her."

"Belle's dead, baby. You know who I mean."

The Plymouth sharked its own way through the light traffic.

"Sometimes," I said.

34

I
PULLED UP outside Michelle's hotel. "You working tonight?" she asked.

"No."

"Take me to the Cellar."

"Who's playing?"

"Who cares? If we don't like it we can split."

"Okay," I said, turning the wheel to slip back into traffic.

"Hold it! Where're you going?"

"You said…"

"Honey, I've been in a
junkyard
. Park this car, wait downstairs in the bar. I'll be changed in a minute."

Right.

35

T
HE BAR had one of those giant–screen TV sets suspended in a corner. I ordered a vodka and tonic, telling the barmaid not to mix them. Sipped the tonic.

Some pro football game was about to start. Three guys in pretty matching blazers were talking about it like they were about to cover a border dispute in the Middle East. "This is going to be a war," one of the white announcers said. The black announcer nodded, the way you do when you hear irrefutable wisdom. The guys along the bar murmured agreement. Sure, just like the War on Drugs. If it was really going to be a war, one team would blow up the other's locker room. The Mole was right—we could never be citizens. Where I was raised, there's no such thing as a cheap shot.

"What do you see as the key to this match–up?" one of the announcers asked.

The guy he asked said something about dee–fense. Chumps. The key is the team doctor. The only war in pro football is chemical.

The barmaid leaned over to ask me if I wanted a refill, her breasts spilling out of the top of her blouse. I thought of Candy and her silicone envelopes. What's real?

Michelle tapped me on the shoulder. She'd changed to a red–and–black–striped skirt that pinched her knees close, the hem just peeking out under a black quilted jacket with wide sleeves. Her hair was piled on top of her head, most of the makeup gone. She looked fresh and sweet. I left a ten–dollar bill on the bar and a cigarette burning in the ashtray. Nobody watched us leave—it was kickoff time.

36

I
WAS GOING through the motions. Playing out the string. Not waiting for full bloom, like I had been all my life. Full bloom had come to me. Just for a visit.

Jacques called me at Mama's. He's a gun dealer, runs a sweet little operation out of a rib joint in Bed–Stuy. I found a pay phone, called him back.

"I have a client for some of my heating units, mahn"—his West Indian accent singing over the line.

"So why call me?"

"This client, he's one of those Haitians, mahn. Spooky, you know. All that zombie–talk…"

"Yeah." There's an army of Haitians between Brooklyn and Queens, waiting for the day when they take back their land from the Tonton Macoutes. They don't fear the living, but Papa Doc's spirit still frightens their children.

"I don't travel, mahn. You know this. And they don't come to my place. I need a traveling man."

"I'm not doing any deliveries."

"Of
course
not, mahn. You know how this works. You go there, they pay you. You call me. I tell them where to pick up the units."

"And I wait with them while they send someone to do the pickup?"

"Sure."

"How much you paying hostages these days?"

"Oh, mahn, do not speak like this. Nobody going to cause trouble. These are not drug dealers, you understand?"

"Sure."

"Let us do business, mahn. Good business for me, good business for you."

"How good?"

"Couple of hours of your time, say…five?"

"Okay."

"Yes?"

"I'll see you in a couple of days," I told him, hanging up.

I heard the surprise in Jacques's voice. A deal like this had to net him six figures, and I was going cheap. But I had a secret he didn't know about. I didn't give a fuck.

37

I
LEFT THE Plymouth just off the West Side Highway near Forty–second and walked over to Eighth Avenue to catch the E train for South Jamaica. A young white dude was sprawled on a bench, chuckling over something he was reading in a magazine. I put one foot on the bench, lit a smoke, took a look over his shoulder. An article about how to make your car burglarproof.

I dropped underground, fishing a token from my pocket. A young black woman dressed like a nun was sitting just past the turnstiles, a flat basket full of coins in her hands. Her face was calm, eyes peaceful.

"Help the homeless?" she asked.

"Say something in Latin first."

"Fuck you," she said, her voice soft.

Everybody's got a pimp.

I caught my train. A huge black guy got on at Queens Plaza. Walked up and down the car announcing that this was
his
train. He was a combat–trained Vietnam vet and nobody was going to pull any stuff on his train—all the passengers could feel safe with him. Took off his cap and went up and down the row, collecting contributions for his program. Right across from me was a young Oriental, a folded copy of the
Times
in one hand, a small dictionary in the other. The black man collected some change from the lady a couple of seats down from me, checked my face, passed me by. The guy next to me looked like a lab rat. He threw some coins. When the collector strolled back up the other side, I watched the Oriental. The black guy shoved his cap right in the Oriental's lap. The Oriental was stone–faced. The black guy was covering his newspaper with the cap, not moving. The Oriental reached into the cap, took out a handful of change, jingled it in one fist, watching the black man. The black man pulled his cap back. The Oriental tossed the change into it.

The black guy moved on, into another subway car. Maybe he really was a Vietnam vet.

I rode the train nearly to the end of the line. Walked up Sutphin Boulevard, looking for the house Jacques had described to me.

Three young blacks were watching the traffic from a topless white Suzuki Samurai. The driver stared through the windshield, his passenger watched the street. Another draped a casual hand over the padded roll bar to watch me approach. The passenger got out to sit on the hood, cradling a cellular phone in a white leather shoulder bag. Ten pounds of gold around his neck, brand–new orange leather sneakers on his feet. Wearing a white leather jacket with layered lapels. I kept coming, hands out where they could see them. The driver reached under the dash. The largest one climbed out of the back. Three gold rings on his right hand, welded into a slab across the knuckles. He put his hand to his cheek. I read "Stone" in raised gold letters. The one with the cellular phone took off a pair of dark shades, raised his eyebrows, tapped his nose. I looked through him, went on past. Crack dealers, not hiding it. Nujacks, they called themselves. Flashing. The way a fuse does before it reaches the dynamite.

They were marking out territory in the wrong neighborhood. This turf belonged to a Rasta posse. The last crew from Brooklyn had ended up extremely dead. That's the only War on Drugs going down around here.

I found the house. Knocked four times on the side door. Stepped into a basement. Nobody said a word in English—a couple of the men muttered in something that sounded like French. They pointed to a suitcase. Opened it. I looked inside, counted. They pointed to a phone. I called Jacques.

"It's me. They got one twenty–five."

"New or used?"

"Used, not in sequence. But I got no blue light with me, pal."

"That's okay, mahn. Put them on."

The guy who pointed at the suitcase listened to Jacques, said something to the others. They went out through a different door than the one I'd used. I sat down to wait. I'd told Jacques that the cash
looked
good, but I wasn't vouching for it. If it was funny money, I was taking the same risk he was—my five grand would come out of the suitcase.

I sat down to wait. Put my hand in my pocket for a smoke. The guy waiting with me said, "Easy, easy." I took it out real slow. I had the match to my cigarette before I realized the guy wasn't talking to me.

It was less than two hours later when they came back.

I hit the street with the suitcase. Before I got to the corner, a dark sedan pulled over, flashing its high beams on and off. The window came down. An Island voice said, "Burke?"

I got in the back. It took off smooth and easy. At the next corner, an identical car pulled in front of us. There'd be another one behind. I didn't look. We stopped at a light on Queens Boulevard. A guy in the front got out of the car carrying the suitcase. He handed it over to the car in front, got back in as the lead car took off in a squeal of rubber.

They dropped me off in Times Square. Handed me an envelope. I walked to the Plymouth by myself.