Safe House (14 page)

Max was like the rest of us. He had so many gifts. So many skills. He could have been anything. Should have been . . .

I felt his hand on mine, looked up and snapped out of wherever I’d been going. Max made the sign of a man being stabbed, showed me the sculpture he’d fashioned to represent the guy Herk had taken down. Then he made the sign of a frightened man—Harriet’s stalker. Showed me that sculpture too. Then he laid out a new configuration of the players:

I nodded that he was right, then held up three fingers, pointing at the stack of unused origami paper. Three more players. I went through it slowly, Max making the new pieces as I talked. I took them from him, placed them on the table so it looked like this:

And then I started to see it.

Max took the sculptures for Vyra and Crystal Beth, moved them back and forth in his hands, eyebrows raised in question.

I told him I didn’t know. Didn’t know who came first, who started it, who was in charge.

He did the same with Lothar and Pryce. I gave him the same answer.

Finally he pulled the Pryce sculpture from the layout, placed it way off to the side. All by itself.

I
t was almost one the next morning when the phone rang.

“He called,” Crystal Beth said as soon as she heard my voice.

“And . . . ?”

“And I told him there was someone I . . . wanted him to meet.”

“That’s all you told him?”

“No.”

“What else?”

“Your name.”

“He didn’t ask any more questions?”

“No.”

“Didn’t ask who I was to you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t ask why you wanted me to meet him?”

“No. Nothing.” Her voice was . . . something. Sad maybe, I couldn’t tell.

“And he said . . . what?” I asked her.

“That it was okay. That he would do it. Tomorrow. At three-thirty.” Then she named a midtown deli on the East Side.

“All right,” I told her. “Let’s do it. You know the Barnes and Noble bookstore on Astor Place?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll meet you there at two, okay? In the coffee shop.”

“Vyra—”

“Isn’t coming,” I said.

I hung up on her silence.

I
slept until almost ten the next morning. When I used the cellular to check with Mama, she told me Wolfe had called. There wasn’t any point calling back—when Wolfe went outlaw, she’d adopted a series of phone cutouts, same way all of us did. Pepper would catch the calls. And you could catch Pepper, if you could make the connections and move fast enough. But Wolfe would never be in that net. I decided to let it ride for now.

And do some riding myself.

I
slammed a new tape into the cassette player, letting the blues take me to the Chicago stop on that deep dark tributary reverse-flowing out of the Mississippi Delta, carrying players and poets in its lush stream. Junior Wells doing Little Walter’s “Key to the Highway,” paying homage, father to son. Mighty Joe Young’s subdued, pain-seared version of “The Things I Used To Do.” Luther Allison and Otis Rush and J.B. Hutto chasing both Sonny Boys. Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters. And the next wave. Dave Spector’s “That’s How Strong My Love Is” following the blood-spoor of Delbert McClinton as the Texas troubadour breached another border behind Lightnin’ Hopkins. Paul Butterfield lurking out-side “Yonders Wall.” Charlie Musselwhite barking out “Early in the Morning.” Buddy Guy coaxing witchfire from a slide guitar. Hoochie-coochie through the back doors. Jailhouses and graveyards. Part-time jobs and part-time women. Grown-upschoolgirls and black Cadillacs not every man could ride. All of them on Robert Johnson’s don’t-mind-dying hellhound trail.

When I’d had enough I switched to my girl. Judy Henske. Little Miss Magic, all six feet plus of her. Judy can bring it back from places the other torch singers couldn’t go at all.

I don’t share my music with citizens. They never get it. One time I was waiting in this joint for a guy who said he was a buyer to show up when I overheard some earnest dweeb talking about how “profound” the Beatles are . . . if you just
listen
to them. That’s when I started wishing bars had metal detectors.

That poor chump would never get it—you can’t get jellyroll from a white-bread bakery.

J
ust over the Brooklyn line, a guy in a red Jeep Cherokee cut me off. One of those deep-dish-overcooked fools who believed four-wheel drive would give you traction on ice. I tapped the brakes, let him slide by. He stuck a fist out the window, waving a kid’s baseball bat, screaming something I couldn’t hear before he sped away. I got a glimpse of his tags. Handicapped plates. I didn’t have to guess what his was.

H
erk’s room was prison-clean. That’s one of the things you do Inside. Scrub every surface. Slow. Taking time the way the State took yours. And making some little space more your own. Inside, nobody calls it their cell. “My house” is what you say. And keeping it clean means keeping more than just the roaches and the mice at bay.

“Thanks for the books, brother,” he greeted me. “Sure helps.”

“It won’t be much longer,” I promised him.

“Burke, I could do . . . something, right? I don’t dig all this sitting around.”

“You got to lay in the cut until we scope what’s out there,” I told him.

“Yeah, I know. But I been reading the papers. Every day. And listening to this here radio. They ain’t got nothing on the . . . guy. I think I’m in the clear.”

“You could be,” I said. Thinking, if it wasn’t for the connect to Crystal Beth, he probably was. “But let’s play it this way for a bit longer, okay?”

“Your call,” he agreed. “But . . . if I’m gonna do more time here, you think you could get me some more books?”

“More of the same?” I asked him.

“Yeah. I heard about a new one too.
Mercedes,
it’s called. And
Jonah Hex.
Hell,
anything
by Joe Lansdale.”

“He’s a writer, right?” I said, into his rhythm.

“Oh yeah,” Herk said fervently.

“
Y
ou can
not
overdress for a first meeting,” Michelle informed me in her “don’t-argue-with-me” voice. “It’s so true what they say about first impressions.”

“You want me to rent a tux?” I asked her.

“What I want is for you to be quiet long enough for me to coordinate. And tell that heinous hound of yours to stop following me around—this place isn’t big enough for me to use an assistant.”

I made the silent command for “Place” and Pansy trotted obediently into her corner just to the side of the door, arranging herself on the thick sheepskin rug I’d gotten her to take the chill off the floor in the winter. “Good
girl!
” I told her, reaching into the refrigerator and coming out with a handful of raw hamburger. I patted it into the shape of a baseball, held it up to get her attention, and tossed it underhand. Pansy snapped it out of the air like it was a dog biscuit.

“It’s amazing she doesn’t weigh five hundred pounds, the way you feed her,” Michelle said over her shoulder, her face buried in the steel locker I use as a closet.

“She works it off,” I said defensively. Truth is, Pansy’s maybe thirty pounds heavier than she was at her peak. She’s almost fifteen now, and I don’t know how much longer she’s going to be with me. Neapolitan mastiffs are long-lived. And I never thought I’d be here longer than her anyway. Things didn’t work out like I thought. Some people died—friends and enemies both—but not me. Every time I think about Pansy going first, I can’t stand it. She’s been with me since she was born. I weaned her myself. She’d die for me. What I should do is put her on a strict diet, grind a few more months of life out of whatever allotment she has left. But she loves food so and I want her to have a . . .

“What
is
this junk?” Michelle snarled, her hands full of my clothes. “This is
so
not now. Where’re the suits I bought you?”

Bought me?
Michelle picked them out all right, but it was me that paid. Through the nose, if I remember right.

“In the other locker,” I told her, not self-destructive enough to voice my thoughts.

Michelle rummaged around, finally hauled out a handful of black wool. “Oh, Burke, this is a genuine Hayakawa, for Susan’s sake. Eighteen hundred dollars—and that was a
bargain
—and you have it stuffed in there like it was polyester.”

“Sorry,” I said lamely.

“Never mind. We’ll steam it in the shower and I’ll press it—that’s why you buy the best goods, they always come back.”

“Right.”

Michelle found a heavy silk cream-colored shirt and a black silk tie that flashed blue when the light caught it. “The alligator boots,” she pronounced. “That will tie it together perfectly. I wish you had time to get a haircut.”

“I just
got
a haircut,” I reminded her.

“Yes, and it shows. What did you pay for that masterpiece, anyway?”

“Six bucks,” I told her.

“Including tip?”

“Hey, it’s good enough.”

“I suppose,” she said reluctantly. “Now, where did you put your good watch?”

I showed her.

“At least we can do something about your nails. I brought my kit.”

“Michelle . . .”

“Thank Susan you don’t chew them,” she said, ignoring my tone.

It was almost one in the afternoon by the time she was done. “Now give us a spin,” she said.

“I’m not—”

“Oh, never mind,” she snapped, taking a quick stroll around me. “This is cashmere,” she said lovingly, patting the sleeve of the black overcoat. “It
reeks
class. Camel’s hair is so totally yesterday, but
black
. . . that has to carry itself. See how it’s so completely unstructured. Without the belt, it just lies there. But when you pull it tight . . .”

“Yeah, it’s fucking lovely,” I said, thinking about how much damn money it cost and here I was wearing it for the first time.

“You’re not getting on the subway like this, are you?”

“I’m gonna drive to Mama’s. Clarence’ll pick me up there. I’ll drop you anywhere you want.”

“Perfect.”

“Uh, Michelle . . .”

“What, baby?”

“Thanks.”

She gave me a kiss. Then she whipped out a towelette and wiped off the lipstick.

C
rystal Beth was already seated when I got to the bookstore. I spotted her as I went through the turnstile. The uniformed guy standing there nodded respectfully, crossing me off his potential-booster list. Maybe I should wear cashmere more often.

Places I go most of the time, maybe I should just paint a fucking bull’s-eye on my back too.

“You look . . . amazing,” she said as I slipped the coat off my shoulders to sit down.

“You too,” I replied.

It was true. She was wearing a pale-blue jersey turtleneck top over an ankle-length black skirt, just the tips of oxblood boots peeking out beneath. Her hair was in pigtails, blue ribbons the same color as her top tied to each end. Dark-red lipstick. The tattoo glistened on the side of her face.

“Thank you . . . for doing this,” she said quietly.

“We have a deal.”

“I know. But still . . .”

A waitress came over. Crystal Beth ordered some complicated espresso junk; I had hot chocolate. With whipped cream.

“You like sweets?” she asked me.

“Some sweets.”

“Burke . . .”

“What?”

“I’m scared.”

“Of this guy Pryce?”

“Yes. Not just him. The whole thing.”

There was nothing to say to that. It could mean anything. And it wasn’t the time for exploring—I needed her mind to be right for the meet. I sipped the hot chocolate, idly watching the customers come and go. Nobody seemed in a hurry. Lots of posing going on at the tables. See and Be Seen. Whoever came up with the idea of a coffee shop inside a bookstore was an entrepreneurial genius—you can’t go wrong opening a singles bar in a city where so many people do their time in solitary.

Whoever picked their playlist was righteous too. I couldn’t spot the speakers, but the whole joint was filled with music. No elevator stuff either: Son Seals wailing “Going Back Home,” Miss Koko’s “That’s Why I’m Crying,” Bazza’s hard-core “Ghost,” Buddy Guy’s “One-Room Country Shack” . . . even Fats Domino’s version of “One Night With You”—the one that puts Elvis on the trailer every time I hear it. I’ve heard that music everywhere from juke joints to late-night FM, but never expected it to wash over a place like this. If my head was different, I would have taken it for an omen. Being me, I just let myself get lost in the blues for a bit, going away to be with myself. When they switched to some softer stuff, I came back to where I was . . . and what I was there for.