We agreed to wait another two weeks. It was fine with the Prof. Max looked unhappy. I spread my hands, asking him "What?" He just shook his head. He'd tell me when he was ready.

WE WERE in the sub-basement of Mama's restaurant, planning the exchange. It was simple enough-I'd make contact over the phone, explain my problem, and wait for the solution to come from them. Sooner or later they'd agree to use one of the freelance couriers who work the fringes of our world. These guys worked off a straight piece, no percentage-maybe ten thousand to deliver a package and bring something back. You could move anything around the city that way-gold, diamonds, blueprints, funny money, whatever. None of the couriers were family people, although one was Italian. They were men of honor-men you could trust. Even back then, there were only a few of them. There's even fewer now. Anyway, the scam was for them to suggest some halfass plan that would get me killed, and for me to act scared and start to back out. They'd eventually get around to suggesting one of the couriers, and Max was on that list. We'd agree on Max, and that would be it. Simple and clean-the heroin for the cash. I laid it out for the others, figuring on scoring about fifty grand apiece when this was over.

"No," said the Mole, his pasty face indistinct in the candlelight.

The Prof chipped in, "Burke, you know what the people say-when it comes to junk, the Silent One don't play."

And Max himself just shook his head from side to side.

I knew what the Prof meant. Max would carry anything, anywhere. His delivery collateral was his life. But everybody knew he wouldn't move narcotics. If he suddenly agreed to do this, it'd make the bad guys suspicious. Even if they let him walk away, he'd have to make dope runs from then on. No matter what kind of sting we pulled off, if Max was the courier he was finished.

There wasn't much to say after that. I watched the candle flame throw shadows on the walls, burning up my plans to be free of this nickel-and-dime hustling once and for all. I wasn't going into the dope business, and I wasn't giving this up without another try.

"Prof, your cousin still work for the post office?"

"Melvin's a lifer, brother-he's hooked on that regular paycheck."

"Would he hold out a package for us if we paid him?"

"Have to pay him a good piece, Burke-he loves that joint. What's the idea?"

"The idea is, we mail the stuff back to them. Mole, how much was in the suitcases?"

"Forty kilos-twenty bags in each case. Plastic bags. Heat-sealed."

"Prof, that's worth what on the street?"

"Depends-how pure is it now, how many times you step on it

"Mole…?"

"It's ninety, ninety-five percent pure."

"Prof?"

"They could hit it at least ten times. Figure twenty grand a key, at the least."

"So they'd pay five?"

"They'd pay the five just to stay alive.

"That's two hundred thousand, okay? How about we mail them four keys, okay? No questions asked. Just to show good faith? And we give them a post-office box number, and tell them to mail us the money for the next installment. We keep running like that until we're near the end. All they can beat us for is the first and last piece, right?"

"No good," said the Prof. "They'd trace the box, or have some men waiting. You know."

"Not if Melvin intercepts the shipment. He still works in the back, right? All he has to do is pull their package of money off the line when it shows up."

"Melvin don't work twenty-four hours a day, man. He's bound to miss some of them."

"So what? We don't need all of them. Every exchange is twenty grand coming from them. If Melvin can pull ten out of twenty, it's still fifty apiece, right?"

"It's shaky, man. I don't like it."

I turned to Max. He hadn't moved from his place against the wall, standing with his corded forearms folded, no expression on his face. He shook his head again. No point asking the Mole. We were back to Square One. The Prof was looking at me like I was a bigger load of dope than the one we'd hijacked.

I lit a cigarette, drawing into myself, trying to think through the mess. Keeping the dope wasn't a problem-the Mole's junkyard was as safe as Mother Teresa's reputation, and heroin doesn't get stale from sitting around-but we took all this risk and now we had nothing to show for it. Waiting didn't bother Max, and the Prof had done too much time behind the walls to care. I watched the candle flame, looking deep into it, breathing slowly, waiting for an answer.

Then the Mole said, "I know a tunnel." He didn't say anything else.

"So what, Mole?" I asked him.

"A subway tunnel," he explained, like he was talking to a child, "a subway tunnel from an abandoned station back out to the street."

"Mole, everybody knows about those tunnels-in the winter, half the winos in the city sleep down there."

"Not a way in-a way out," said the Mole, and it slowly dawned on me that we could still pull it off.

"Show me," I asked him. And the Mole pulled out a mess of faded blueprints from his satchel, laid one flat on the basement floor, and shone his pocket flash for us all to see.

"See here, just past Canal Street? You come in any of these entrances. But there's a little tunnel-it runs from Canal all the way up to Spring Street…see?"-pointing a grubby finger at some faint lines on the paper and looking up as though even an idiot like me would understand by now.

When he saw I still wasn't with him, the Mole's tiny eyes blinked hard behind his thick lenses. He hadn't done this much talking in the last six months and it was wearing him out. "We meet them in the tunnel near Canal. We get there first. They block all the exits. We give them the product and we take the money. We go out heading west…see, here?…they go out heading east. But we don't go out the exit. We take this little tunnel all the way through here"-tracing the lines-"and we come out on Spring Street."

"And if they follow us?"

The Mole gave me a look of total disgust. He was done talking. He took his satchel, pushed it away from him with his boot, so it was standing between us. "Tick, tick," said the Mole. They wouldn't follow us.

Now I got it. "How long would it take us to get to the Spring Street stop?"

The Mole shrugged. "Ten minutes, fifteen. It's a narrow tunnel. One at a time. No lights."

Yeah, it could work. By the time the wiseguys figured we weren't coming out any of the Canal Street exits, they'd have to go back inside to look for us, and we should be long gone by then. They'd figure we'd be hiding out, waiting for darkness to fall, or that we'd try to slip away in the rush-hour crowd. And even if they did tip to the plan, we'd have too much of a head start.

"It's great, Mole!" I told him.

The Prof extended his hand, palm up, to offer his congratulations. The Mole figured the Prof wanted to see his blueprints, and tossed the whole bundle into the Prof's lap. Some guys are just culturally deficient.

I looked at Max. He was watching the whole thing, but his face never changed. "What's wrong now?" I asked him with my hands.

Max walked over to us, squatted down until his face was just a few inches from mine. He rolled up his sleeve, pulled off an imaginary tie, and looped it around his biceps he put one end in his teeth and pulled it tight. Then he drove two fingers into the crook of his arm, where the vein would be bulging, used his thumb to push the plunger home, and rolled his eyes up. A junkie getting high. Max watched my face carefully. He folded his arms in the universal gesture of rocking a baby, then opened his arms to let the baby fall to the floor. And he shook his head again. Max the Silent wasn't selling any dope.