Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [17]
"I'll think about it, okay? Where can I find you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah. You. I know how to find Marques."
"I work at The Satellite Dish. Out by JFK."
"That's a strip joint," I said.
Something must have shown in my face. Her tiny rosebud mouth made a quick kissing motion. "You think I'm overqualified?"
I shrugged.
"I work every night except Tuesday."
I put my hand on her wrist. Gently, holding her attention. "Tell Marques not to call me. If I want to meet him, I'll come and tell you first."
"What if you don't want to see him?"
"Then I won't," I told her, guiding her back into the driver's seat, motioning for her to take off.
I started walking in the opposite direction. The Camaro drove off. I watched over my shoulder as she turned the corner; then I went back to the Plymouth.
21
THE WAREHOUSE off Division Street in Chinatown looked like it always does. Empty. Deserted. I pulled in, turned off the engine. Waited. When I heard the door close behind me, I knew Max was home.
The warehouse was furnished with dim shadows. I followed Max up the back stairs to the second floor. He usually went to the back room, where we'd work on our life–sentence gin game. Something different today. Max stopped on the landing. His temple was upstairs. The dojo where he practiced, the teak floor marked with a white–pine border. The sacred ground where Flood met a freak who called himself the Cobra. The killing floor.
Immaculata was sitting in a low chair in a corner of the white room. A black lacquer table covered with books and papers at her elbow. The baby sat across from her, wearing only a diaper, her little face grave as she watched her mother work. A butcher–block table ran the length of one wall, with hardwood straight–back chairs at each end. Max gestured to one of the chairs. I sat down as Immaculata put her notes aside and rose to her feet.
"Hello, Burke."
"Hi, Mac. How's Flower?"
"She is a perfect child," Mac said, as though she'd carefully considered all the other possibilities. "Some tea?"
"Thank you," I said, knowing what she meant.
Mac started to walk into the next room. The baby made a sound, less than a cry, maybe a question. Mac knelt next to her child, speaking quietly, her voice steel–cored. "Mother will come back, baby. Always come back, yes? Never leave you." She kissed the infant gravely on the forehead. Waved a goodbye gesture to the child. Again and again, patiently, until the child moved her hand too. "Smart baby!" Immaculata clapped.
I took out a cigarette, held it up for Max to see, asking if it was okay to smoke near the child.
Max pointed to an ashtray the size of a dinner plate, aluminum on the outside, glazed red ceramic on the inside. He lit a cigarette of his own, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. Spreading his arms to say the whole world smoked and the baby wasn't going to spend the rest of her life in the house.
Immaculata came back inside. She had a pot of tea with two cups, a glass of iced ginger ale for me. "I have your mail," she said, handing me a stack of letters. I use a P.O. box over in Jersey. One of Mama's drivers empties it for me about every two weeks, leaves the letters in Mama's basement. Max picks them up when he has the chance and holds them for me. I shuffled through them. Nothing from Japan. Nothing from Flood. I put them in my coat.
Immaculata pulled up a chair, joined us, one eye on her baby. Flower was gurgling happily to herself. It sounded like singing.
Max held up one finger, catching my eye. Pay attention.
He moved off his chair without a sound, crouched behind the baby. Suddenly he slapped his hands together. It sounded like a gunshot. The baby jumped, trying to turn her head in the direction of the sound. Max scooped her up and held her against his chest, nuzzling her, his horn–callused hands now soft as a cloud. The baby's tiny hands searched—found one of his fingers, grabbed, and held.
Max carried the baby back to his chair, held her on his lap. Smiling.
Immaculata stood watching him, hands on hips. "Max!"