57

THE PIMP'S watch had some fancy engraving on the back. "L to R. All ways." Probably from the freak who turned him out the first time. No point trying to sell it. I opened it up, keeping only the timing mechanism-the Mole could always use something like that-pushing the rest to the side of my desk. The diamond ring was another story-a heavy white-gold base holding what looked like a two-carat stone. I screwed the loupe into my eye socket and took a closer look-no blemishes that I could see, nice fire. I pried the stone loose, pushing what was left of the ring over next to the wreckage of the watch.

The key ring was useless to me, but I took my time with the little leather address book. All first names or initials, with phone numbers next to them. In the right-hand column there was a single-digit number next to each name. Some kind of code for what the customer usually wanted? I copied everything from the book onto a yellow pad. I'd keep the book itself-it might turn into a poker chip sometime.

I went out to the metal stairs leading to the roof, calling for Pansy. The moon was a crescent, clear against the night sky. I lit a cigarette, watching the moon hang up there, a million miles from this junkyard we live in. I like to look at the moon-you never get to see it in prison.

Pansy lumbered downstairs. She saw me standing on the iron landing and put her paws on the railing. Standing like that, her face was almost level with mine. I scratched the back of her ears absently, trying to get a grip on my search for the picture. In the morning I'd see a guy who would get me the names and addresses to go with the phone numbers from the pimp's book, but it wasn't likely to give me anything. I had to wait on the Mole and Bobby, couldn't push them to move any faster. The only way to get more information was to talk to the kid myself.

I'd need Immaculata for that.

And Strega.

58

THE NEXT morning I went to work. First to Mama's, where I called Strega.

"It's me," I said, when she picked up the phone.

"You have what I want?" she asked.

"I'm still working. I have to talk with you-get some more information."

"What information?"

"Not on the phone," I told her. "You know the statue on Queens Boulevard, on the north side, just before the courthouse?"

"Yes," she said.

"Tonight. At six-thirty, okay?"

"Yes," she said again, tonelessly. And hung up.

I went back inside to the restaurant. Mama glided over to my table. "No serve breakfast," she said, smiling. I looked stricken. "But not too early for lunch," she told me. One of the alleged waiters materialized next to me, bowed to Mama. She said something in Cantonese to him. He just nodded.

"Hot-and-sour soup?" I asked.

"You speak Chinese now, Burke? Very good."

I didn't bother to answer her-Mama was only sarcastic when she was annoyed about something.

"You want me do something for you, Burke? Get Max over here?"

"Yeah, Mama. I want Max. But I could find him by myself, right? I came here to give you something."

Her eyes opened slightly, looking a question at me. I put the diamond I took from the pimp on the table between us. Mama picked it up, held it to the light between her fingers.

"Man's stone," she said.

"Your stone," I told her. "A small gift to show my great respect."

A smile lit up her face. "Very nice stone," she said.

I bowed my head, saying the matter was closed. "Tell me about new case," Mama said.

"I'm looking for a picture," I said, and told her what kind of picture and why I was looking.

Mama put her hands in the sugar bowl, tossing a pinch of the white powder on the table top, using her fingers to push it into a long narrow column.

"Everybody do something," she told me, drawing her finger through the bottom of the column, drawing a line. "Some people do more things, okay?" Drawing another line, leaving more than half the column between us. "Gambling, funny money, jewels," she said, each time flicking more sugar off the column. "Guns, stealing" More flicks of her finger-less sugar on the table. "Protection money, killing…" More sugar vanished. "Drugs," she said, and the last of the sugar was gone.

I got it. Everybody has to make a living. Everybody draws a line somewhere. The people who do kiddie porn are over the line no matter where you draw it. "I know," I told her.

"Business is business," said Mama, quoting her favorite psalm. "Everything has rules. Do the same way all the time. Reliable, okay?"

"Yes," I said, waiting.

"Even with war…rules," Mama said. I wasn't so sure-I'd been in one, but I let her go on.

"These people…" Mama shrugged, her face set and hard.

The soup came. Mama dished some out into my bowl. Gave some to herself. She bowed over the plates like she was saying grace.

Mama looked up. "No rules," she said.

"No rules," I agreed.

59

IMMACULATA came in the front door of the restaurant, made her way past the customers to our table.

"Hello, Mama," she said.

Mama smiled at her-a real smile, not the cat's grin she usually showed Max's woman. "You sit down with us, okay? Have some soup?"

Immaculata bowed. "Thank you, Mama. I have been told your soup is the finest of all."

That put the cap on it for Mama. "You help Burke on his case, yes? Very good. Very important case. Sit with me," she said, patting the seat next to her.

Immaculata shot her hips sideways and was next to Mama in a flash. She must have been working with Max-he'd been trying to teach me karate for a long time-I hoped he was having better luck with her. Mama gave her a generous helping of the soup, watching her bow over the food before eating, nodding her head in approval.

"Max coming?" she asked.

"Yes," Immaculata answered.

"Max good man. Fine warrior," Mama opened.

"Yes," said Immaculata, waiting.

"Good man. Make good father, yes?"

Immaculata's eyes were calm, but her golden skin flushed. She looked directly at Mama.

"You know? Even Max doesn't know."

"I know," said Mama, patting Immaculata's arm, her whole face smiling.

Immaculata watched Mama's face, then broke into a smile of her own. Without a word being said, she knew she wasn't a bar girl to Mama anymore.

60

MAX CAME out of the kitchen, bowed to everyone at the table, then slammed into the booth next to me, almost driving me through the wall. He pulled out a tattered copy of the Daily News, spread it on the table, and pointed to the charts of Flower Jewel's race with a thick finger. He spread his hands to ask a question-what did this "dq" crap mean anyway?

I used the sugar bowl and the salt and pepper shakers to show him how it had happened. Max nodded, moving his right hand in the "hit me" gesture blackjack players use when they want another card. We were going to bet on Flower Jewel the next time she raced. It wasn't like I had any choice-I handed Max a hundred, ignoring Mama's broad grin and Immaculata's look of benign interest.

Max made the sign of a galloping horse, checked to see that all eyes were focused on him. Then he pounded his chest over his heart, balled his right hand into a fist, and laid his forearm on the table with the underside up. The veins looked like electrical cords. He touched a vein, touched his heart again. Made the sign of the horse.

I got it. Since the blood of Mongol warriors ran in his veins, he claimed to have a natural kinship with horses. I should listen to him.

Mama nodded in agreement. "Good blood," she said. Immaculata blushed again, but Max was too busy proving he knew more about horses than I did to pay attention.