"Like I said-she's in the business.

The leader ran his fingers through his hair-I could see the tattoo on his hand. His voice was still soft. "Her name is Bonnie. The house is on Cheshire Drive in Little Neck, just this side of the Nassau County border. A big white house at the end of a dead-end street. There's a white wall all around the property-electronic gate to the driveway. Big, deep backyard, trees and shrubs all around. Two stories, full basement, maybe some room in the attic too."

"Anything else?" I asked him.

"She has that schoolbus you talked about-a little one, maybe a dozen seats in the back. She uses the big, fat guy as the driver.

"Any security in the house?"

"I don't know," he said. "The Real Brotherhood-we play it straight-we weren't even thinking about taking her off."

I handed him two grand, all in hundreds. "That square us?" I asked him.

He smiled. "I'll take B.T.'s money out of this," he said.

I held out my hand. He took it-his grip was firm, but not a bone-crusher. I wouldn't give B.T. the same opportunity.

"I'm going to move fast now," I told him.

"Do what you want," he said. "Take your time. She put down our name, you understand?"

I nodded-someday soon, B.T. was going to get the idea the woman was a front for the NAACP.

I slammed the door in Pansy's face, waved a clenched fist to Bobby to thank him, and drove the Plymouth out of the garage.

84

EVEN PANSY felt the difference in the Plymouth as it purred along, heading back to the office. Bobby had done a beautiful job. I rolled to a stop at a red light on Atlantic near the Brooklyn-Queens border. An orange G.T.O. screeched to a stop next to me-two kids in their street racer. The passenger rolled down his window, smiling at me while his partner revved the engine, waiting for the light. I raised my eyebrows in respect for their dragster, and stomped the gas just as the light changed. I heard the G.T.O.'s tires squeal, hunting for traction on the rough road, but the Plymouth leaped ahead as though their orange machine was tied to a stake. The speedometer needle flicked at seventy before I backed it off for the next red light. I heard the G.T.O. roaring behind me, letting up on the gas while still in gear to make his exhaust pipes crackle. Very impressive. This time, they pulled up on the passenger side. I hit the power window switch just in time to hear the driver shout the street racer's time-honored question, "What you got in that, man?"

Pansy popped her head up from the front seat, snarling at all the noise. I heard another squeal from the G.T.O.'s tires and it was gone. The light was still red.

It was getting dark. Time to start making the phone calls, checking my traps. I wanted to drop Pansy off at the office, but I was short of time. The leader of the Real Brotherhood seemed like a patient man, but he was raised the same places I was-places where if your name went down, your body wouldn't be far behind.

I pulled up behind Mama's, opening Pansy's door to let her out. She prowled the walls of the narrow alley, finally relieving herself against both of them. She sniffed the air, a soft growl coming from her throat. I don't know if it was the smells from Mama's kitchen or whether she missed old B.T.

I let her back in the car and went inside through the kitchen. My table in the back was empty like it always was-Mama's heavy dinner crowd didn't fill half the joint-she kept the prices high and the ambience foul to discourage yuppies.

"Trouble?" she asked, approaching my table, her voice soft.

"No trouble, Mama. But I have to make a bunch of phone calls-and I have Pansy with me. Out in the car."

"This new puppy, Burke?" She knew my old Doberman, Devil.

"She's not really a puppy anymore, Mama."

"Big dog?"

"Big dog," I assured her.

"Maybe keep puppy in basement, okay?"

"Perfect, Mama. Just for a little while, right?"

"Sure," she said, doubtfully. "I tell cooks everything okay. Come."

I followed her back to the kitchen; she fired some Cantonese at the collection of thugs.

"Go get puppy," she told me.

I snapped Pansy's leash on. She lifted her head, wondering what was going on. She only got the leash when she was going to be around citizens. When we walked through the back door, one of the cooks made a sound like "Eigh!" and backed all the way into the stove. They all started talking at once-arguing about something. Pansy sat at my side, drooling. They couldn't be sure it was the food. Two of them were pointing at the beast's head, standing chest to chest, screaming at each other. I couldn't make out a word. I had started to the basement with Pansy when Mama held up her hand.

"Burke, what country this dog from-don't say word, okay?"

I should have known-all the screaming and yelling was about some dumb bet-and Mama was looking for the edge. Mama's alleged cooks would stab you in the stomach and then bet you how long it would take you to die.

"Pizza," I told her, under my breath.

Mama charged into the argument, adding her own voice to the din. Finally, she pointed to one of the cooks.

" Germany?" she asked me.

"No," I said.

She pointed to another.

" England?"

I said "No" again, watching their faces.

" China?" she asked, pointing to a young man in the corner.

"No," I told her again. "The dog is from Italy."

A smile broke out on Mama's face. She made me say it again, so everyone in the room would get the benefit of her wisdom. Everybody bowed to her. I didn't see money change hands, but I figured their pay envelopes would be a little short that week.

Pansy snarled her way down the steps to the basement, threatening the darkness. Mama switched on the lights-the place was filled floor-to-ceiling with boxes, some wood, some cardboard. Drums of rice stood to one side. There was still another basement below this one-I remember one time when the cops were looking for Max and they thought he was down there. They waited two days to find me to ask him to come out quietly.

"Puppy want food, Burke?"

"Sure, Mama. Whatever you think is best."

She bowed. "I come back soon," she said, and went back up the stairs. More screaming and yelling in Chinese erupted-I think the cooks wanted a rematch. She came back down with a volunteer helper; he was carrying one of those giant stainless-steel pots they use to keep the rice freshly steamed all day long. He put it on the floor, watching Pansy warily.

"This puppy good guard dog, Burke?" she asked.

"She's the best, Mama."

"Shethis girl puppy?"

"Women the best warriors," Mama said, then translated it for the cook, who nodded dubiously. "Puppy guard down here?"

"If you want her to," I said. "Watch-and tell your man to keep his hands in sight, okay?"

She nodded. I slapped my side for Pansy to follow me, walking her so her back was in a corner formed by some of the stacked cartons. I took down a few cartons to make a little wall in front of her, about as high as her chest. Her face loomed above the barrier, watching. I knew just what trick Mama would love. "Pansy!" I said, my voice sharp to get her attention. "Friends!" I motioned Mama forward. "Go ahead and pat her," I said.

Mama hadn't gotten where she was by showing fear. She walked right up to Pansy, patting her head, saying "Good puppy!" a few times. Pansy stood still, her eyes on the cook.

"Okay, now step back, Mama." When she did, I got Pansy's attention again. "Guard!" I told her.

"Tell your man to approach like he's going to pat her too, Mama. But tell him not to reach over the barrier, you got it?"

She said something to the cook. His face stayed flat, but you didn't need a translator to see he was suspicious as hell. The poor bastard had gotten about five feet from the barrier when Pansy lunged at him, a blood-chilling snarl flowing between her teeth. He leaped back about twenty feet-the snap of Pansy's jaws was like a thick branch breaking.