"You have to get shampooed first," he said.

"Can't you just cut it?"

"It has to be wet," he said with a sideways glance at Michelle.

"He was raised in a barn," Michelle sighed.

I let some little girl lead me to another room, where she put the shampoo in my hair, rinsed it out, did it all over again. Daniel was still playing with Michelle's hair when I came back.

"How would you like this cut?" he asked.

"Just do whatever you do," I told him. I saw him glance at Michelle again. "Don't get stupid," I warned him.

He walked out of the room to get something he needed.

"Michelle, we got something on for tonight, okay?"

"A phone job for me?"

"And something with the Mole too," I told her. For once, she didn't make a crack about the Mole.

"What time?"

"We'll meet around five, five-thirty. Mama's basement, okay?"

"I'll be there, baby," she told me, giving me a quick kiss and walking out.

Daniel finished cutting my hair. With the room quiet, it was like a real barbershop-he even knew something about prize-fighting. When he was finished, I looked the same-Daniel told me it was an art.

I went out to the receptionist, asking for Michelle.

"Oh, she left a few minutes ago. She said you'd be taking care of her bill with yours."

What was I going to do? "Okay, how much for the whole thing?"

"Let's see…" she told me brightly, "with tax, that's a hundred and seventy dollars and fifty-six cents."

"What!"

"Michelle had a styling, a color consult, a manicure, and a pedicure," she said, as if that explained everything.

I didn't leave a tip for Daniel-if he owned that joint he had a license to steal.

92

"HOLD STILL!" Michelle ordered. She was sitting next to me, my right hand spread out on a board she held in her lap, working carefully with a rapidograph, inking in the crossed lightning bolts of the Real Brotherhood.

The Prof peeked over my shoulder-he knew what the real thing looked like better than most.

"You should have been an artist, babe," he complimented her.

"Honey," Michelle said, "I am an artist-I give a whole new meaning to the term 'satisfied customer.'"

Max sat in the lotus position against the wall in Mama's basement. He was dressed all in black-not the ceremonial silk he usually wore for combat-some dull matte material. He fitted a hood of the same stuff over his face. It covered the back of his neck, blending into the jacket- only his eyes were visible. He was working with some black paste, rubbing it into his hands.

"Mole, you got the car?"

He nodded. We wouldn't use the Plymouth to approach the house. Michelle was going to stash it a few blocks away-if anyone was following us, we'd switch cars, leaving the Mole's untraceable junker behind.

"The phones go down at eleven-thirty?" I asked him.

He nodded again. There was no burglar alarm, no direct connection to the local police station either. There wouldn't be.

We didn't have to go over it again. Michelle would call, act like she was a telephone solicitor, ask to speak to the man of the house. If the husband answered, she'd do her best to keep him on the phone while I was ringing the front-door bell. Max would go over the back fence, penetrate the house. He'd take out anyone he found, except the woman- I needed to talk to her. If the woman answered the door, I'd brace her right there, take her inside, and get the pictures. If the wrong person answered the door, I'd show them the pistol, play it from there while Max worked his way through the rest of the house.

And if I didn't like the look of the front of the house, I'd find my own way inside.

The Prof and I each had a little radio transmitter the Mole hooked up. When I hit the switch, the Prof would climb behind the wheel of the crash-car and start the engine. I'd come busting out the front door. And the Mole would turn the house into an incinerator. Then he and Max would go back over the fence to where Michelle would be waiting.

It should all be over by midnight.

Michelle was finished with my hand and started on my face. The heavy pancake makeup made me a few shades darker, and the black mustache changed the shape of my face even more. I'd have a hat on my head and dark glasses over my eyes.

"What did McGowan say when you brought him the kidTerry?" I asked her.

She didn't answer-I saw something in her face, her mouth set and hard.

"Michelle?"

"I didn't bring him to McGowan," she said.

"What did you do with him?" I asked her, keeping my voice level.

"Burke, he couldn't go home. His father's an evil pig-he's the one who started him off."

"That's why he ran away?"

"He didn't run away-his father sold him to that pimp."

And people think it's going to be air pollution that kills us all someday.

"What did you do with him?" I asked her again.

"He's my child now," she said. "I'll take care of him."

"Michelle," I said, my voice patient but my mind screaming trouble!, you can't keep that kid in your hotel. Sooner or later somebody's going to…"

"He's with me," the Mole said.

"In the junkyard?"

"I fixed up a place for him," the Mole said, a hurt tone in his voice.

"The Mole's teaching him, Burke," Michelle said. "He's learning all about electronics and stuff. He's real smart. You wouldn't believe how much"

"Jesus Christ!"

"Burke, he's my boy, okay? We take him to SAFE. Lily's working with him. He's going to be fine."

"What if someone comes looking for him?"

"What if they do?" she challenged.

"Michelle, listen for a minute. You're in the life, baby. What kind of a mother could you be?"

"Better than the mother you had," she said, her voice quiet.

I lit a cigarette. Maybe the kid would never get to prep school, but the state makes the worst mother of them all.

"He's one of us," the Mole said, looking at Michelle.

I gave it up. "Just don't expect me to be his goddamned uncle," I said.

Michelle gave me a kiss on the cheek. "When I have my operation, I'm going to adopt him, Burke. He can go to college and everything…you can scam up some papers for him…I started to put money aside already…"

"I know," I said. "And the Mole's going to buy him a puppy, right?"

"He has lots of dogs," the Mole said in a serious tone.

My fingers twisted into the sign for "Okay," aiming at Max. He was gone. I peered into the corner where he had been working with the black paste, wondering how he did that-and then I saw him. He hadn't moved at all-the black cloth ate the light until he was nothing but a puddle of shadow. They'd never see him coming.

The Prof came over and stood beside me. "Burke, if that old woman doesn't talk, you going to walk?"

I thought of what Mama said not so long ago. No rules. "I'm coming out with that picture, Prof," I told him. "It's the jailhouse or the graveyard. If it goes sour, do what you have to do."

"I know what I have to do," he said. I took one last look around.

"Let's do it," I told them.