"So she figures he wants money, right? She knows that could be taken care of. But he don't want money, Burke. He wants her to take off her clothes for him while she's on the phone, the freak. He tells her to take the clothes off and say what she's doing into the phone."

The old man's eyes were someplace else. His voice was a harsh prison whisper, but reedy and weak. There was nothing for me to say-I don't do social work.

"She tells me she goes along with it, but she don't really take nothing off, okay?-and the freak screams at her that he knows she's not really doing it and hangs up on her. And that's when she hit the fucking panic button-she believes this guy's really watching her. All the time watching her, and getting ready to move on her kid."

"Why come to me?" I asked him.

"You know these people, Burke. Even when we were in the joint, you were always watching the fucking skinners and the baby-rapers and all. Remember? Remember when I asked you why you talk to them-remember what you said?"

I remembered. I told the old man that I was going to get out of that joint someday and I'd be going back to the streets-if you walk around in the jungle, you have to know the animals.

"Yeah," I told the old man, "I remember."

"So what am I gonna fucking do, ask one of them psychiatrists? You know about freaks-you tell me what to do."

"I don't tell people what to do."

"Then tell me what's going on-tell me what's in his head."

"He isn't watching her, Julio," I told him. "He just figured she wasn't going along, that's all. He's a freak, like you said-you don't ever know why they do something."

"But you know what they're going to do."

"Yeah," I told him, "I know what they're going to do." And it was the truth.

We smoked together in silence for a bit. I knew Julio, and I knew there was more coming. Finally, he snubbed out his skinny, twisted black cigar on the Plymouth 's faded flank and stuck it in his pocket. His old, cold eyes grabbed mine.

"He called her again"

"And…?" I asked him.

"He told her to come to the park, you know, that Forest Park, near her house in Kew Gardens? And he says she has to go jogging in the park Friday morning, okay? And not to wear no underwear, so's he can watch her bounce around. He says if she does that, they'll be even and he'll let her kid off the hook."

"No," I said.

"No fucking what?" shouted the old man. "No, she don't go to the park-no, he don't let the kid off the hook…what?"

"The kid's not on the hook, Julio; this freak is. He's a degenerate, okay? And they never stop what they do. Some of them step it up, you understand? They get into more freakish shit. But they don't stop. If she goes into that park, he'll call again. And the next time he'll want more."

"He's gonna rape her?"

"No, this kind doesn't do that. He's a watcher-but he wants to hurt women just the same. He wants to make them dance to his tune. And the ones that dance, he speeds up the music."

The old man slumped against the fender. All of a sudden he looked ancient. But an old alligator can still bite.

"She's good people, Burke. I never had a daughter, but if I did I wish it would be her. She's got a heart like steel. But this kid of hers, Mia, she turns her to water. She ain't scared for herself."

"I know," I told him.

"And she can't tell her husband. He'd wanna file a fucking lawsuit on the guy or something."

"Yeah," I agreed, sharing the old man's profound respect for citizens.

"So what do we do?" the old man asked me."Where did this 'we' come from, Julio?"

"You do bodywork, right? I heard around for years-you do this kind of work, like private-eye shit and all."

"So? This is different."

"What's so different? Just nose around and find out this guy's name for me-where he lives and all."

"Not a chance," I told him.

The old man looked into my eyes, slipping into a new game quicker than a striking snake.

"Burke, this is family."

"Yeah," I said, "your family."

"In the joint, we was like family," he told me, his voice quiet.

"You been reading too many books, old man. I was never in your fucking family."

"Hey, come on, Burke. Just 'cause you ain't Italian don't mean nothing to me," he said, with all the sincerity of a real-estate broker.

"I went to prison because I wasn't going to spend my life kissing ass," I said, "and kissing some old man's pinky ring don't race my motor either. A boss is a boss-I don't have much but at least I don't have a fucking boss, you hear me?"

The old man kept his face flat against this sacrilege, but his lizard eyes blinked. He said nothing, waiting for me to finish.

"I showed you respect then-and I show you respect now," I said, letting him save face. "But don't disrespect me with this bullshit about 'family,' okay?"

The old man thought he got it. "You want money?" he asked.

"For what-for doing what?"

"I want to make this freak stop hurting Gina."

"Will she do what you tell her?" I asked him.

The old man made a clenched fist, pounded his chest where his heart would be if he had one. It was all the answer I needed.

"I'll take a shot," I told him. "Tell her to go to the park on Friday, just like the freak told her to. I'll be around, okay?"

"Burke-you'll do it right?"

"There is no 'right' about this, Julio. I'll get it done or no charge, how's that?"

"How much?"

"Ten large," I told him.

The lizard eyes didn't blink. "You got it."

I climbed back into the Plymouth. It was only two days to Friday and I'd need some help for this one. The old man's small hand reached for my arm-I stared down at the hand the way you do in prison when someone touches you who shouldn't-it was boneless-nothing but parchment skin and blue veins.

The old man looked at me. "Burke," he pleaded, "take him off the count."

"I don't do that kind of work, Julio."

The old man's eyes shifted again. "You said thirty large, right?"

"I said ten, old man. I don't do that kind of work. Period."

Julio tried to look injured. "You think I'm wearing a wire?"

"No, old man, I don't think you're wired. But you know better than to ask me to drop someone. I'll do what I said I'll do. That's it. Say yes or say no."

"Yes," said the old man, and I backed out of the garage, heading back to the city.

IT TOOK us most of the night to get everything in place. I couldn't bring Pansy on a job like this-if I kept her in the blind with me and some fool let his dog lift a leg against a nearby tree, the emergency ward would have some new customers. She's perfect on a job when you're working people, but other dogs annoy the hell out of her-especially male dogs.

Max the Silent was somewhere in the nearby brush. He's a Mongolian free-lance warrior who works for only those he wants to, and walks where he will. Calling him a karate expert is like calling a politician crooked-it doesn't tell you anything special. A strange little guy we call the Prophet was trying to explain Max to some of the young guys on the yard once. He did it much better than I could-when the Prophet talks, it's like being in church, only he tells the truth:

"Max the Silent? Max the life-taking, widow-making, silent wind of death? Brothers, better to drink radioactive waste, easier to reason with a rattlesnake, safer to wear a gasoline overcoat into the fires of hell than to mess with that man. You go to fuck with Max, people, you best bring your own body bag."

But he's not called Max the Silent because he moves so quietly. Max doesn't speak and he doesn't hear. He may be able to read lips-nobody knows-but he communicates perfectly. I showed him some of the clippings the freak had mailed to the redhead; then I made the universal sign of the maggot-two palms pressed together, one opened to show a rock being overturned, and a disgusted face at what I was looking at underneath the rock. Then I made the sign of using the telephone, and started to unbutton my shirt with a horrified look on my face. He got it all, and he dealt himself in. We'd split the money.