Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [46]
Grabbing an elbow with each hand as if I were rocking a baby, I crossed my arms—did Mama Wong have anything for me? Max picked up an imaginary telephone, spoke into it, touched his finger to his forehead like he was making a mental note to remember something. So I had gotten a call at Mama’s, someone very insistent. Okay.
I buttoned up the coat to show Max I was leaving, and he glided out into the front area to make sure nobody was around. Max is a bonafide member of the warrior class—he doesn’t need combat to prove what he is. A lot of clowns who spend half their time slobbering about “respect” should see how the rest of the world treats Max.
As I pulled out of the garage, Max gestured that I should let him know if things got difficult. Implicit in his gesture was the belief that almost anything was too difficult for me to do alone.
17
THE DRIVE OVER to Mama’s was uneventful. The Plymouth was running smooth as a turbine. I checked the tape recorder hidden inside the dash to be sure it was working, then switched over to some cassette music. Charley Musselwhite’s version of “Stranger in a Strange Land” came back at me through the four speakers. He was a perfectionist once, but he’d left his best efforts in Chicago a dozen years ago—I don’t play any of his latest stuff. Too bad you can’t keep people’s best performances on tape cassettes like you can music. It wouldn’t matter in my case, though—I haven’t had my best shot yet, I hope.
I parked next to the dumpster in Mama Wong’s alley. It’s perfectly legal to park there, but nobody does. There’s some kind of Chinese writing on the wall, courtesy of Max the Silent. I don’t know what it means, but nobody parks there. I knocked twice on the steel door to the back of the restaurant, heard the peephole slide back, and one of Mama’s alleged cooks let me in. Mama was sitting at her tiny black-lacquered desk, sipping a cup of tea and writing in her ledger book. I guess a lot of people would like to take a look at that book—I guess a lot of people would like to be rich, happy, successful, famous, secure, and healthy too. They’ve got about the same chance. Mama greeted me with her usual blend of Far Eastern subtlety and politeness.
“Burke, why you wearing that silly hat?”
“It’s a disguise, Mama. I’m working on a case.”
“Not so good disguise, Burke. You still look like European.” (Mama likes to pretend all Occidentals look alike to her.)
“Max said you got a phone call for me?”
“Burke, you only one that can talk to Max except for me. Max like you. Max say that you are a man of honor. How come he say that?”
“Who knows why Max says anything?” (Meaning: That is between Max and me—he may work for you but he and I are a separate thing. Mama knows this but never stops trying. She thinks all secrets are dangerous except her own.)
“Burke, you get phone call from same man. James, he say. I tell you before, this man not good, okay?”
“What did he say this time?”
“He say I better tell you to call him. That this mean good money for you and you be mad at me if I don’t tell you.”
“Did he scare you, Mama?”
“Oh yes, very frightened. Many people killed over the telephone, right?” (Meaning: The phone number I give people rings in Mama’s restaurant, but the actual instrument is located in the back of the warehouse, with the bell disconnected. It’s hooked up to a diverter, which bounces the signal to the junkyard’s pay phone in Corona, where another diverter picks it up and rolls it back to the pay phone in the kitchen. Bribing a phone company employee will eventually get you the address of the warehouse, but that’s as close as you’d get. And going there with threats for Mama Wong would be fatal.)
“He leave a number, Mama?”
“Same number as last time. He say you can call him between six and seven tonight.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“No, nothing else. You want something