And now he had an address without paying for it. Twenty-three Sunrise Court.

He didn't write it down, the way he had with the license number, because now he was smart; no one would get it unless they paid for it.

And now look how calm he was, facing the white cop. Though if the guy had just showed the badge, no picture of the kid, he might've figured it had something to do with Moran- what the hell would he have done then?

“I tell the black guy,” he said. “He never call me back.”

“I'm sorry, sir. We've been quite busy-”

“You busy looking for the kid,” said Zhukanov, “but I see him.”

“You saw him several days ago, sir.”

“Maybe,” said Zhukanov, smiling.

“Maybe?”

“Maybe I see him again.”

The blond cop pulled out a little notepad. “When, sir?”

“I tell your black buddy the first time; he never call me back.”

The blond cop frowned, leaned a little closer. “Sir, if you have information-”

“I don't know,” said Zhukanov, shrugging. “Maybe I forget. The way the black guy forget to call me.”

The pad shut. The cop was annoyed, but he smiled. “Sir, I understand your frustration. Sometimes things get busy and we don't dot every i. If that happened to you, I'm-”

“Dot every i is important,” said Zhukanov, not sure what that meant. “But also money.”

“Money?” said the cop.

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“That,” said the cop. “Sure. If we find the boy and he helps us, it's yours. At least that's what I was told.”

“No one tell me.”

“I've seen the forms, sir. My captain signed them. If you'd like to call him-”

“No, no,” said Zhukanov. “I just wanna get it square, you know? Maybe I know something more than I told the black guy, but what if kid runs, you don't find him? What happens?”

“If your information's solid, you'll get partial payment,” said the cop. “Part of the twenty-five thousand. That's the way we always do it. I'm not saying you could get all of it, but-”

“How much part of it?”

“I don't know, sir, but generally in these situations it's around a third to a half- I'd guess ten, twelve thousand. And if the boy is there, you'd get all twenty-five- why don't you speak to my captain-”

“No, no,” said Zhukanov, thinking, If the old Yid did take the kid home with him, the kid could still run; better not dawdle anymore. “I want you should write it down.”

“Write what?”

“What you say. Twelve, fifteen to Zhukanov just for telling, all twenty-five if kid show up.”

“Sir,” said the blond cop, sighing, “I'm not in a position- oh, all right, here you go.”

Ripping a sheet out of his pad, he said, “How do you spell your name?”

Zhukanov told him.

The blond cop printed neatly:

This stipulates that to the best of my knowledge, Mr. V. Zhukanov is due $12,000.00 because of information he has offered about a missing boy, unknown identity, related to L. Ramsey, PC 187. Should Mr. V. Zhukanov's information lead directly to this boy and this boy's information lead to apprehension of a suspect, he would be due $25,000.00.

Det. D. A. Price, Badge # 19823

“Here,” said the cop, “but to be honest, I can't promise you this means much-”

Zhukanov snatched the paper, read it, and stuffed it down his pants pocket. Now he had a contract. If the bastards gave him trouble, he'd hire Johnnie Cochran, sue the hell out of them.

“I know where he is,” he said. “Enough for the twenty-five.”

The blond cop waited, pen poised.

“The Yids- the Jews from over there got him.” Zhukanov pointed south. “They got a church. The old Jew hid him in there, took him home.”

“You saw this?” said the cop. He straightened and his shoulders widened.

“You bet. I looked for the car, followed it to the old guy's house this morning.”

“Good detective work, Mr. Zhukanov.”

“In Russia, I was policeman.”

“Really. Well, it paid off, sir. Thank you. And believe me, I'll do everything I can to make sure you get every penny of that twenty-five thousand.”

“You bet,” said Zhukanov. The wolf triumphs!

The blond cop said, “What's the address?”

“Twenty-three Sunrise Court.” Twenty-five-thousand-dollar address.

“That's here in Venice?”

“Yeah, yeah, right here.” Idiot, didn't know his own city. Zhukanov hooked a thumb. “From alley, you go to Speedway, then to Pacific, then five blocks over.”

“Great,” said the cop, closing the pad. “You've been a tremendous help, sir- when you say the alley, you mean the one back there?”

“Yeah, yeah- I show you.”

Vaulting over the counter- adrenaline-charged, despite his aching limbs, Zhukanov led the blond cop around the side of the shack, past the shipping-carton trash boxes. If the guy only knew what had been in there yesterday.

“Over there,” he pointed, “is Jew church where I see car. Okay?”

“What kind of car, sir?”

“Lincoln. White, brown roof.”

“Year?”

“Don't matter, I got something better for you.” Grinning, Zhukanov recited the license number. The cop scrawled in the darkness. “Other way is where he went.”

“North,” said the cop.

“Yeah, yeah, right up to Speedway and then Pacific, five blocks.”

The cop repeated the instructions, a real dummy.

“That's it,” said Zhukanov. Go find him, you stupid bastard. I'm giving him to you on a platter!

The cop put his pad away and shot out a hand. “Thank you, sir.”

They shook. Firm, manly shake. If the cop only knew the hand he was grasping had been bloody up to the elbow a few hours ago. Zhukanov tried to break the clasp, get the guy moving, but he couldn't pull away- the cop was holding on to him, yanking him close- what the hell was this? The cop was grinning, like he was going to kiss him, this wasn't right, this was wrong.

Zhukanov struggled, struck out.

A hand grabbed his wrist, twisted it, something broke, and pain devoured him from fingertip to the bottom of his ear. One quick move, just like Colonel Borokovsky. He cried out involuntarily, and something big and meaty exploded in the middle of his face and he went down.

Then more pain, even worse, burning, searing, like a fire igniting his bowels.

Starting right under his navel, then spreading upward, like a burning rope. Then he felt cold, a strange cold- cold air blowing… inside him, deep inside, and knew he'd been split open, filleted- the way he'd split the fat bastard and now it had happened to him and he couldn't do a damn thing, just lie there and take it.

The last thing he felt was a hand going through his pocket.

Fishing out the contract. Liar! Cheater! The money was hi-

73

Being alone here is different from the park. Dif- ferent from Watson.

I've got all these rooms, these books, someone who trusts me. Once in a while I hear footsteps out on the sidewalk or someone talking or laughing, a car driving by. But they don't bother me; I'm here, locked in. I can sleep without waking up to see what's around. I can read without a flashlight.

I've thought about it a lot, and Sam's right. Tomorrow I'll find a phone and call the police, tell them about PLYR 1. Maybe I can call Mom, too. Tell her I'm okay, not to worry, I'm doing just fine, one day I'll come back, be able to support her.

What would she do? Cry? Get mad? Beg me to come back?

Or worse: not beg me? She must miss me a little.

I stop thinking about it, stretch my feet out on the couch, pull the knit blanket up over my knees, start in on the next Life magazine. The main article's all about John Kennedy and his family, happy and handsome on the beach.

California beach, same sand that's just a little way up. I could walk over, look at it, pretend to be John Kennedy, come back. But I told Sam I'd stay here, and he gave me the alarm code.