Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [18]
Immaculata sighed. "When I was pregnant, he'd do that all the time. He said the baby could hear him. When she came out of my body, he made everyone be quiet. He waited until she was nursing.…Then he clapped his hands like that. When she moved—when she heard him—I thought he was going to burst, he was so happy."
"She recognized his voice," I said.
"Sure. That's what he said."
"What else could it be?"
"I think"—she looked at her husband—"I think he was afraid our baby would be born deaf."
"Was Max born deaf?"
"I never asked him," she said, a slight warning tone in her voice.
He was my brother. I had earned the right to know. Earned it in a prison cell. I pointed at Max. Made a gesture as if I was rocking a baby. Pointed at him again. At my ear.
His face went hard, eyes slitted, mouth a straight line. He shook his head. No.
I opened my hands. "How?"
Max gently picked up his baby, carried her back over to the floor, put her down. Kissed her. He stood between Immaculata and me. Pointed to himself again. A fist flashed into his palm so quickly I only saw the vapor trail. A sharp crack. He pointed to his ear. Held his palm thigh–high. A little child. His hand became a claw, snatched something, lifted it off the ground. Threw it against the wall. Walked away. Pointed to himself again.
He wasn't born deaf.
I tapped my heart twice, bowed my head. My eyes felt funny.
Max pointed at Flower, playing by herself on the floor. Reached his hand across the table. Immaculata put her hand in his. He circled his thumb and forefinger. Okay. Okay, now.
Yeah. He was ahead of the game.
I took a sip of the ginger ale. Lit another smoke. I held my palms close together, not touching. A meeting.
Max did the same. The palms became fists.
I shrugged. Maybe. Who knows?
I pointed at him. At myself. Waved a pointing finger. A meeting outside. In the street.
He looked a question.
I rubbed my first two fingers and thumb together. Money. Maybe a job.
Max hissed an inhale through his nose.
I shook my head. Not cocaine. I made the sign of injecting something into my arm. Shook my head again. Not heroin. Held an imaginary joint in my mouth, triple–inhaled fast. Shook my head again. Not marijuana.
Max took a dollar from his pocket. Held up three fingers. I shook my head again. Not funny–money.
Immaculata watched us, like a spectator at a tennis match. Waiting for the punch line.
Max pointed a finger, cocked his thumb. I told him no again. Not guns. I weaved my fingers in the air, making an hourglass. Women.
His face went hard again as he held his hand chest–high, asking.
I put my palm to my forehead, like a salute, measuring for him. Not kids. I made a gesture like I was talking to someone, negotiating. Showed money changing hands. I took some cash from my pocket, put it on the table. Made one big pile with a single bill off to the side. Pocketed the pile. Pushed the remaining bill across the table to my left. Made the hourglass sign again. Her share.
Max circled his hands around his head, tilted a hat brim forward.
I nodded. A pimp.
Max smiled. He made a gesture like he was pulling a wristwatch off. Pulled rings off fingers. Reached inside his shirt for a wallet.
I shook my head. Not a shakedown. Not a rough–off. I held my palms together again, not touching. Just a meeting. Okay?
He nodded.
I pointed at my watch. Made an "I don't know" gesture. I'd let him know when it was going down.
The baby cried. Immaculata went over to her, picked her up, and sat her down on her lap to nurse. I bowed to Max, to Immaculata, to my brother's baby.
I went down the stairs to my car, thinking of Flood. Back to being alone.
22
I WENT through the mail back in the office. The usual stuff. Congenital defectives replying to my ad promising "south of the border" opportunities for "qualified adventurers." Most of the mercenary action is in Central America now; the Cubans have made it real clear that Africa isn't the promised land. The good scams concentrate on "training exercises." There's