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"He's better, but he's not back to himself yet."

"You'd expected him to be dancing by now?"

"Not the physical thing. The Prof, he's like two people. Half is this rhyming–time, upbeat thing you see, okay? The other half is how he got his name. Like a religious thing—I don't have a name for it. He got his name because he can see things."

"Like what's going to happen?"

"Sort of. Like I said, I can't really explain it. But he can preach, square business. Talk that religion like he means it. Strong enough to make you buy a piece sometimes, when he really gets on a roll. That's what's missing now."

Belle tapped fingernails on one knee, paying attention, listening close. She turned to look at me. "Maybe he don't like what he sees comin'," she said, the Southern–swamp tang strong in her voice.

94

I PULLED the Plymouth into the parking lot across from the Criminal Court. The parking lot where I met Strega for the first time. The court where I first saw Wolfe in action. It was nine–forty–five—all the spaces were taken.

"Cruise around the lot like you're looking for a place to park," told Belle. "You find one, pull in. Watch for me—I'll be coming down those steps," I said, pointing across Centre Street. "You see me coming, catch my eye. We may have to move out right away."

I gave Pansy the signal. She flopped down in the back seat, filling it to capacity.

I crossed the street, grabbed the phone I wanted. I picked up the receiver, holding down the hook, and acted like I was listening to someone on the other end, glancing at my watch.

I knew my watch was accurate, because it read ten o'clock just as the phone rang. I released the hook.

"Can I see you? Today?"

"Muy importante?"

"Sí."

"Handball court closest to Metropolitan. One o'clock."

"Thanks."

I was talking to a dead line.

95

I CAME down the steps, spotted the Plymouth making a slow circuit. I caught it on the second pass, opened the door. Belle rolled out to Lafayette Street, turned south, in the direction of the office.

"I don't have to get moving until around noon," I told her. "But I need the car when I do."

"I'll go with you."

"No, you won't. And get that pout off your face."

She didn't. "Make a right," I told her as we came to Worth Street. "Head down to the river."

Pansy poked her head over the top of the front seat. "Want to run, girl?" I asked her. She growled.

I showed Belle where to pull in. There were only a few cars on the broad strip of concrete, the usual collection of humans minding other people's business. I opened the back door, hooked Pansy's leash, and we strolled along the river. Her snout wrinkled at the smells, but she held her position. On my left side, slightly ahead. Every time I stopped, she sat. When we got to the deserted pier, I let her off the lead, making a circle with my hand, telling her not to roam far. Freed of the restraint of the leash, she did what comes naturally to her. Lay down.

"You lazy old thing," Belle said. She looked around, her eyes sweeping the Jersey shore on the other side. "Sure doesn't smell like any water I ever saw."

"It's not water—just a liquid toxic–waste dump."

"You can't swim in it?"

"No. But on a good day, you could walk on it."

"Ugh!"

A sailboat went by, loaded with yuppies in yachting gear. Sailboats down here make about as much sense as No Smoking sections in L.A. restaurants, so you see a lot of them.

Belle pointed to one of the round beams that held up the pier. "Boost me up," she said, one foot in the air. I cupped my hands and she stepped in, reaching to the top of the beam. I heaved, and up she went. It wasn't as bad as loading trucks, and the view was a lot better. I lit a smoke, handed it up to her. The breeze pulled at her hair, pulling it off her face. She turned to the side, sucking in a deep breath. I took one of my own—no Viking ship ever had a prouder figurehead. Two teenagers pulled up, riding those little motor scooters you see everyplace. They stopped a decent distance, watching