"Terry is coming back with us," she said. Her voice was calm-just stating a fact. I glanced over at the kid-if this wasn't okay with him he was a hell of an actor.

"There won't be any problem," I told them both, the magnum heavy in my coat. "This guy doesn't try and hurt me, he won't get hurt."

"I hope he does try and hurt you," Michelle said, her voice soft.

I shot her a dirty look, but she wasn't paying attention. "Do you know what he did to Terry? You know what he makes…"

"I know," I told her.

When we crossed 14th Street I told Michelle to get down. "You just stay in the car no matter what happens," I told the kid.

"Terry knows what to do," Michelle snapped at me, sliding into position. The boy held her hand.

I nosed the Lincoln into a dark spot in the shadows cast by the big ships. No sign of the pimp. I hit the window switch, waiting.

It didn't take long. Headlights on high beam flashed behind me-the red Corvette. I climbed out of the car, walked around toward the trunk. Where I'd stash the pictures if I got any.

The Corvette hit the brakes, sending the machine into a controlled skid across the back of the Lincoln, blocking me in. The pimp revved his engine before he shut it down, climbing out in almost the same motion. The passenger seat looked empty. I walked over toward him to get a better look.

The pimp stood next to his car, hands balled into fists. I walked right up to him, stepping in his space, looking down like I was afraid. The inside of his car was empty. Good.

"The pictures?" I asked him.

He reached in a shirt pocket, coming out with a pair of sunglasses. He took his time adjusting them on his face, making me wait.

"The money?" he said.

I took out the thousand from my coat pocket, handed it to him. Put my hand back in the same pocket like I was guarding the rest of my money. Felt the magnum waiting there.

He handed me four Polaroids, watching me turn my back to him so I could catch some light. They were all of the boy. Terry. Three had him naked, sucking on another little boy who was doing the same thing to him. The last picture was a side view of a kid being penetrated in the rear-you couldn't see his face. My hands shook.

"You only take pictures of your own boys?" I asked him.

"That's the best way, man. From me to you-no problems and no complaints."

He took a leather notebook from his pocket. Flipped it open and pulled out a gold pen. Started writing.

"What are you doing?" I asked him.

"Writing down your license number, man. Just in case I want to get in touch with you again." His eyes were hidden behind the glasses.

I quickly looked around. Quiet as a graveyard. "Don't do that!" I yelled, and the trunk of the Lincoln popped open. The pimp grabbed a fistful of my coat, drawing back his other hand to shut me up. I hooked him deep in the belly with the hand holding the magnum, trying to drive it through him and scratch the finish of his red Corvette. He grunted and doubled over, catching a kick on the temple from my steel-toed shoe. The pimp's glasses flew off-he was reaching for something in his jacket when the Prof put the scattergun in his face.

The pimp just lay there while I checked his equipment. A little.32-caliber automatic, a pretty silver color. A diamond ring, a wafer-thin watch. A tiny leather address book. A key ring with a bunch of keys. A wad of bills in a wallet so thick it was almost a purse. A silver vial with a screw-on top. No identification. I pocketed it all.

He was gasping for breath by then, but watching me closely. Wondering what the game was.

I went around to the Corvette, shoved the lever into neutral, and put my shoulder to it. It moved forward a few feet-more than enough to get the Lincoln out. I pulled the keys from the ignition, walked back, and held them in front of the pimp's face.

"I'll leave these under the streetlight over there," I told him, pointing to my left. It was about a hundred yards away.

The pimp was still quiet-the shotgun was his whole world.

"You fucked with the wrong kid," I told him, and walked to the Lincoln. I started it up, backed it out, spun around so the passenger door was at the Prof's back. Michelle opened it from the inside and the Prof jumped in as I took off.

The Lincoln shot toward the streetlight. I hit the brakes hard. "He's still down," the Prof called out. I threw the vial out the window.

If the maggot remembered the license number of the Lincoln, he could ask the Real Brotherhood for his car keys.

56

I WANTED the Lincoln off the streets in case the pimp decided to make a phone call.

"Can you call McGowan from your place?" I asked Michelle.

"I'll handle it," she said from the back seat. The boy was quiet. I glanced in the mirror-he was trembling, Michelle's arm around him, his face in her chest.

I tossed the pimp's wallet into the back seat. "Have to throw the rest of his junk away," I said. The Prof nodded agreement.

The Lincoln rolled north on the highway, heading for 125th Street, where I'd make the sweep and head back to our part of town.

"Almost six thousand," Michelle said, a happy note in her voice. The wallet came sailing over the seat, landing on the dashboard.

"Take your cut," I told the Prof. The scattergun was stashed under the seat.

"Cash from trash," he said, sounding religious, "cash from trash."

He pulled a pair of cotton gloves from the freezer suit and started to work on the pimp's little gun, wiping it clean. He pulled out the clip, then jacked the slide, catching the unfired slug in his hand.

"One in the chamber," he said. The little automatic had been ready for work.

"One piece at a time," I said. The Prof nodded, hitting the switch to lower his window. First the bullets, then the clip. The silver gun was the last to go.

The Prof handed me my share of the pimp's money, softly clapping his hands together to say all the work was done. I let him off on Second Avenue in the Thirties, opening the trunk to let him take his cart and leave the freezer suit. The Prof strapped his cart to his back like it was a knapsack.

"Watch yourself, Prof," I told him.

"The street is my home, and that ain't no poem," he said. The pimp might see him again, but nothing would register. We pressed our palms together, chest high. The way you say goodbye in the visiting room in prison. Through the bullet-proof glass.

I rolled up outside Michelle's hotel, opened the door to let her out as if I was a chauffeur. The little boy was holding on to her hand like a lifeline. Maybe it was.

Michelle kissed me on the cheek. "Keep the change, honey," she said, and started up the steps.

I had the Lincoln back inside my garage in another fifteen minutes.