Flood (15 page)

We found Max an old army jacket and some regulation combat boots, very comfortable for driving. Everything went fine until I got out the gloves—Max never wore gloves even in the dead of winter. But his hands were more recognizable than most people’s faces. I didn’t know how observant these guys were, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

Max slammed the gloves down on the table in a gesture of total refusal. I grabbed the gloves in one hand and balled the other into a threatening fist, telling him to put on the damn gloves or I’d break his face. His face broke all right, into silent laughter. Then he lightly touched the first two fingers of his right hand to his forehead and to his heart, and opened his two hands in front of me. This was an apology, not for refusing to wear the gloves but for laughing at me. Max thinks I’m more sensitive than I am. At least I think he does.

We went to examine the cab. It was typical of the breed, a battered old Dodge with hundreds of thousands of no-maintenance miles on the clock. The trunk, as expected, was empty, since fleet owners don’t want the cabbies to sell the spare tire and claim it was stolen. We spread a heavy quilt on the floor of the trunk, checked to make sure the exhaust system was free of leaks, and Max punched a few tiny holes in the trunk lid with an icepick. I’d be wearing a one-piece padded refrigerator suit while I rode along in the trunk, the kind guys use to work inside meat lockers. That, plus the quilt, would keep me from breaking a few bones when Max slammed the cab around like I expected.

While Max finished checking over the cab, I got the giant portable tape player (another mugger’s donation) and a supply of tapes for Max to play while he drove. It was a little after eight when we finished, so I put some Judy Henske tapes in the player and Max and I continued our game of gin. We had previously agreed to play until one of us won a million dollars from the other. We’d been playing almost ten years and Max had all the score sheets from our first game in the Tombs to last week’s. I was a good seventy bucks ahead. We sat there, playing gin, smoking—me listening to the music, Max feeling the bass lines through his body. It was good to be sitting in the one club where I was always welcome. I think Max felt the same, although we never talked about it.

23

JUST PAST NINE we loaded up the cab and pulled out, me driving and Max as the passenger. We rolled the cab into my own garage. Max stayed there while I went upstairs, let Pansy out, and got her something to eat. Then I climbed into the trunk and Max took the wheel. No way I was going to let these people get a look at my face until I was sure it was going down like it should. If there were cops on the corner, Max would just motor right on by. We headed for the pickup point near Thirty-fourth Street. Although Max loved to drive, he generally behaved himself when he was at the wheel of a cab. Cabs were too sloppy for him—they didn’t respond to a delicate touch. The Plymouth was another story—every time I let him drive that beast he’d happily tear chunks out of the pavement, corner in four-wheel drifts, break 125 on the West Side Highway, and generally act like the city was a giant demolition derby. A lot of cabbies drove like maniacs but there was a purpose to it—making money. Max was immune to money.

I could feel the streets slip by—I could tell where we were just from the sounds and smells. I lay there wrapped in the quilt, looking like so much garbage in the filthy refrigerator suit. If anyone were to open the trunk, it would take them more than a second or two to figure out there was a live human being in there. By then they’d have mace, if not stars, in their eyes. We had checked the trunk light to make sure it wasn’t working.

The cab slowed to a gentle stop and the engine revved sharply—once, twice. It meant we were a few minutes early and Max didn’t want to turn the corner until he could do it right on the money. Okay. We started up again, turned a corner, drifted over to the right, and began slowing down in a long gradual slide. By now Max was blinking the lights like we had arranged. I heard someone say “That’s it” and people approach the cab. The back door opened and a voice said, “Are you the guy from Burke?” The cab lurched as Max took off—the body of one of them slammed backward from the acceleration and the cab shot straight ahead, heading for the West Side Highway.

One of the passengers started to say something, but gave up as the shrieks and screams of contemporary disco pounded through the cab’s interior from Max’s ghetto blaster. There was no hope of them getting any kind of look at Max—the interior light hadn’t gone on when they’d opened the door, Max had kept his high beams on while picking them up so they couldn’t see through the windshield, and the protective screen of plexiglas between driver and passenger was black with years of nicotine and grime.

Max sped downtown, obviously ignoring several red lights, judging by the occasional gasps of the passengers and the uninterrupted flow of our passage. When he got near the Division Street underpass, he slammed to a stop. There was no action from the backseat, but when Max turned off the cassette player they got the message that this was the place. They got out and the cab was moving again before the back door was closed. We were out of their sight in less than ten seconds, around the corner and heading for the warehouse.

Max pulled the cab in the back, I let myself out of the trunk, and we both covered the cab with one of the tarps we always kept around. You never know what you might have to cover in an emergency.

I set up the meeting table in the side room while Max removed his disguise—he changed into a pair of chinos, sweatshirt, and black leather shoes so thin they could have been ballet slippers. While I sat at the table with the light behind me and waited, Max faded out the side door to bring on the clowns. If they had split the scene, Max wouldn’t bother to look for them. Unless they got out of the area real fast, one of the roving packs of kids would take them quickly enough.

It was about twenty minutes before they came back. Max led them inside to the table, ushering them over to a pair of chairs facing me, then floated over and took the chair to my left.

Two men. One beefy-faced and bulky, close-cropped hair, a thick drinker’s nose, steel-frame glasses. A fringe of whitish hair poked out of the top of a white sportshirt worn outside his pants. Omega chronograph on his left wrist, dial facing out, short, fat hands, flat-cut nails. Expressionless face, piggy eyes. The other, taller with a heavy shock of blond hair parted on the side, suede sportcoat, mobile clean-shaven face, two thin gold chains around his neck, hands clean and well-cared for, a metal case protruding just slightly from his breast pocket.

We looked at each other for a moment or so, then the taller one spoke. “Are you Mr. Burke?”

“Yes.”

“I’m James. This is my associate, Mr. Gunther.”

Gunther leaned forward so I could see his little eyes and clenched one of his hands into a fist. The heavy. “Who’s this?” He pointed a fat finger at Max.

“This is my silent partner.”

“We’re just dealing with you. Nobody else.”

I looked back at him pleasantly. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you. My driver will be happy to take you back to where he picked you up—”

James broke in. “Mr. Burke, you will have to pardon my friend. He’s a soldier, not a businessman. There’s no reason why your partner can’t sit in if you wish.”

I said nothing. Max said nothing. Before James could continue, Gunther spoke up again. “He’s a gook. I don’t like fucking gooks—I saw enough of them. What kind of white man has a gook for a partner?”

“Look, asshole,” I told him, “I’m not buying any master-race stock this week, okay? You got business, talk—you don’t, walk.” I was pleased at the rhyme.

“You do all the talking for the two of you?”

“Yep.”

“What’s the matter with the gook, he don’t talk?”

“He doesn’t do any talking. And so far neither have you.”

James put his hand lightly on his pal’s clenched fist and patted him. A tender gesture. “Mr. Burke, I must again apologize for my friend here. His family was killed by terrorists back home. They were blacks, of course, but we later learned that they had Chinese leadership. You understand . . .”

“You think my partner was one of the terrorists?”

“Don’t be silly. I just mean—”

“I’m not silly, just confused. Are you people cops, journalists, businessmen, or just a couple of thrill-seeking faggots?”

Gunther was on his feet, opened his mouth to say something, then focused his eyes sufficiently to notice the double-barreled sawed-off I had leveled at his face. He closed his mouth and sat down. James hadn’t moved. I turned the shotgun sideways so they could see it didn’t have a stock. It didn’t have much of a barrel either, just about enough to sheath the shells waiting inside. I moved it lightly from one to the other.

“You call and pressure me until I finally agree to meet with you. I send a cab for you, bring you to this place I had to rent for the evening. You cost my partner and me a lot of time and some money too. Then you come here and talk a lot of garbage—now you want to threaten me too? You have business or not?”

“We have business, Mr. Burke, serious business. Business that could make you a rich man, if you’ll just allow me to speak.”

“Speak. First, you carrying, either of you?”

James said no, but Gunther reached in his pocket and took out a pair of brass knuckles. Laying them on the table in front of me, he said, “That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

Gunther wasn’t finished with his heavy act yet. “That’s all I ever need,” he said, and settled back into silence.

“Let’s just start over,” James said. “We have a buyer for certain goods in our home country, and we have a seller of those same goods. What we need is for those goods to reach the buyer, and when they do, there is a handsome commission available to the individual who expedites matters. We understand that you have the means to accomplish this, and we simply want to put that proposition on the table.”

“What goods?”

“Fifteen hundred long arms, about half-divided between Armalites and AK–47s, two thousand rounds for each weapon, five hundred bulletproof jackets, four dozen SAM–7s, some pump-action .12 gauges, and some other miscellaneous items.”

“To where?”

“That’s not important.”

“How do I move them if I don’t know where to?”

“You don’t have to move them, Mr. Burke. That’s the beauty of this. All we want from you is a valid End Use Certificate from your friends in Africa. We’ll do the rest.”

“And the money?”

“Half a million, U.S. Payable anyway you say.”

“What makes you think I can get an End Use Certificate?”

“Mr. Burke, suffice it to say that we are aware of your services to the former Republic of Biafra. We are aware of an exile government now operating in the Ivory Coast and your friendship with that government.”

“I see.”

“It would work like this. We would purchase the goods and stockpile them in this country. You obtain the certificate, valid in the Ivory Coast. How we get the goods from there to our home country is our problem—we simply trade the certificate for the money.”

“Sounds simple.”

“It is simple.”

“And you’d purchase the goods simply on my say-so?”

“Well, of course, we’d have to have a deposit on your end. We’re risking all the goods, and we have people to answer to. But it’s important enough to our cause to take the chance and trust you substantially—”

“How substantially?”

“I don’t follow.”

“How much of a deposit?”

“As you know, ten percent is traditional. But in your case, because of your reputation, we would accept only two percent.”

“Of the total value of the goods?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Burke. We realize that individuals don’t have that kind of cash available. Only two percent of the value of the commission you are to receive for the certificate.”

“So ten thousand?”

“Exactly.”

“So I put up ten thousand, and you put up what?”

“Mr. Burke, we put up title to the goods—in your name or in whatever name you desire. Title to the goods in your name, F.O.B. London. Of course, the goods will never leave the States until you hand us the certificate, but you will have title.”

“So what would prevent me from just selling the goods on my own?”

That was Gunther’s cue to role-play again. He leaned forward. “It wouldn’t be worth it to you.” Picking up the brass knuckles, he rapped them on the table for emphasis.

I sat back like I was thinking about it but then Gunther had to overact again and spoil everything. He looked over at Max. “What’s the matter with the chink? How come he don’t talk?”

James looked pained, as if Gunther were a dangerous madman just barely under control. A good act, but the wrong stage.

“He talks,” I said. “I interpret for him.”

“Oh yeah? That’s real nice. Ask the chink what year this is?”

“What year?”

“Yeah, you know. The gooks all have names for years, right? Like the Year of the Dragon or the Year of the Horse. Ask him what year this is—I got a feeling this is the Year of the Pussy.”

I knew I shouldn’t have made that crack about faggots, but it was obviously too late now. Max looked at Gunther, smiled, tapped his forehead, and shook his head negatively. I was in it anyway by then, so I translated. “He says he knows what year it
isn’t.”

“What year is that, wise guy?”

Max repeated his earlier gestures, then reached out onto the table with his hand like he was groping for something, stopped when he found it, and turned his palm over. Then he made a disgusted face, gently turning his palm over again, and shook his head once more.

“He says it’s not the Year of the Maggot,” I told them.

Gunther glared over at Max, who gave him a beautiful soft smile in return. When he spoke he accented each word with vicious precision. “Tell that slant-eyed punk that one day I’m going to meet him when you’re not around with that scattergun to save his ass. Tell him that I’m going to make him polish my boots with his tongue. Tell him that.”

Max smiled even more sweetly. Taking the brass knuckles in his two hands, he rotated them against each other. His forearms looked like twisted ropes of heavy telephone cable, his face was flat—lips parted just enough to show a tiny gleam of white. His nostrils flared, his ears flattened against his head and the flesh moved away from his eyes. The deaf-mute gook had become the Mongol warrior lord as though the metal in his hands had flowed into his face and upper body. The brass knuckles resisted, then yielded, bending almost double in his grip.

Gunther’s face lost its blood, but he couldn’t look away from Max. I put the shotgun on the table butt-first toward Gunther, shoving it right into his hands. “Want to try this?” I leaned my chair back against the wall. A smell that you can find in the lobby of most any housing project suddenly filled the room. Gunther got up, backing away from the table and the shotgun as if they were radioactive. James slowly pushed his own chair back and walked over to Gunther. The shotgun and the brass knuckles lay untouched on the table.

“Don’t ever come back,” I told them. “Don’t ever think about coming back. I’ll call you at your number three nights from now, at six o’clock, and tell you if I’m interested in your deal. You understand?”

James mumbled yes and they walked out the door, his hand on Gunther’s arm.

Max and I sat there for a second, then got up to get away from the aroma. Max put his hands together and flicked them back and forth to show me he would clean up. I went over to the cab to get my cigarettes, lit two, and let them burn in the glass ashtray. Max came over, took one. He touched his hand to his heart to thank me for showing him respect by putting a loaded shotgun in the hands of his enemy. I made an it’s-nothing gesture to indicate that even with the shotgun Gunther was no match for him. Max drifted to the front of the warehouse to see if they might have some crazy idea about coming back. While he was out front I took up the shotgun and exchanged the blank shells inside it for some real ones in case they did.