She sat there for a while, obviously thinking it over. Like she knew something was wrong but couldn’t get a grip on it. I smoked another cigarette while she was thinking. Finally she said, “It’s no good. It doesn’t even look like a gun. You couldn’t hold it on anyone and make them do anything. It wouldn’t scare anyone.”

“It’s not supposed to scare anyone. Nobody’s even supposed to see it, much less get scared by it. It’s just in case.”

“In case of what?”

It was my turn to shrug. I took off the jacket, put the tube back inside, refastened the Velcro flap, tried it back on, and moved around inside the jacket until I was comfortable again. “Ancient philosophy covers everything, right? People have evolved since those Japs went into the mountains to study the fine art of breaking other people into little pieces. We got all kinds of freaks walking around this planet who didn’t even exist a hundred years ago. This is for them, not for me. You have a reason to be here, but only for a while. Then you’ll go back to wherever you came from and do whatever you did before. I have to stay here-it’s a life sentence for me. So don’t tell me how a man looks when he’s carrying a gun-you don’t know, little girl. You may be the toughest broad on this whole earth, okay? But in this little section of it you’re ice cream for freaks.”

Flood looked like her whole face went flat except for her eyes. I didn’t let it stop me. “Don’t get an attitude, Flood. I’m not trying to be your daddy. If I was in fucking Japan looking for someone I’d at least have enough sense to find a translator first, right? We’ve got work to do, and I can’t have you stomping around like a fool-you’ll fuck things up. And I’ll get my ticket cancelled.”

Flood tried to sound bitter. “That’s the real issue, huh?”

“Ah, kiss my ass.” I threw my hand up in disgust and opened the door to get out. Flood’s hand turned into a grappling hook as she hauled me back inside like I was a featherweight and slammed me back against the driver’s seat.

Still holding the lapel of my jacket, she thrust her square little face right against mine, growled “Maybe later,” and giggled. Then she leaned over and kissed me hard on the mouth. “Let’s be friends, okay?”

“I am your friend,” I said, “I just don’t want-”

Flood made a shut-up gesture with her hands. “That’s enough. I’ll listen to you-you’ll listen to me. Let’s do it.”

I nodded my head. We both got out of the car and started up the block to the Daily News Building.

AS WE WALKED up Forty-second Street I kept my hands in my pockets. Flood rested her left hand on my forearm, keeping the other one free and loose. There’s something about that street that makes you think a freak is going to jump out of every alley, even when you’re way over on the East Side. Now that we had some of the ground rules straight, Flood decided to ask some questions. “What are we going to do at the News Building?”

“We’re not going to do anything. I’m going inside to see someone-you’re going shopping.”

“Look, Burke-”

“Flood,” I said wearily, “I’m not leaving you out of anything. There’s no reason for this guy I have to meet with to see your face, right? And besides, you really do need some kind of disguise if you’re going to go around with me. We don’t know what’s going to come down when you meet up with this Cobra freak. There’s no need for people to see you.”

“We are going to find him, Burke?”

“We are going to find him, yes. For damn sure if he’s still in the city. And eventually even if he’s not. Okay? But you’ve got to loosen up. Let me do what I can do-then you’ll get your shot at him.”

Flood smiled. A genuine, happy smile. “Okay!”

“All right, listen. You have to buy some clothes and some other stuff. You got money?”

“Yes, I have some.”

“Here’s what you need. A good black wig, about medium length, some instant-tanning lotion, any kind you want, some gold eyeliner and eye shadow, some dark lipstick, the darkest you can find. Then either a low-cut blouse or a V-neck sweater, some spike heels with dark stockings or pantyhose, and the tightest pair of bright-colored pants you can squeeze yourself into. Oh yeah, and a wide belt with a buckle in front. Get a cap that’ll help you hold the wig on, some color that matches the rest of the outfit.”

“Forget it.”

“Flood, there’s no forget it going down here. I thought you said we’d work together on this.”

“Where do I get to work, some massage parlor?”

“Hookers in massage parlors don’t wear junk like that, Flood-they wear cheesy nightgowns and body powder.”

“I’m sure you’re a real expert on the subject.”

I slowed down to light another cigarette. Opened my mouth to explain the reasons to Flood, who said, “You smoke too much,” and slapped the butt out of my mouth. She turned away so I couldn’t see her face. We both stopped in the middle of the block. She said nothing, just kept looking away from me. I was about ready to give up. “You’re a goddamned baby.”

She whirled around to look at me. Her eyes were almost bright enough to have tears in them. “I’m not a baby. But I’m not going to just do things. You have to explain them to me.”

“Flood, there’s a good reason for every single damn thing I told you to get. But we don’t have to fight about it out here in the street, okay? I’ve got to see this guy to get things ready. You can do one of three things: go and buy the stuff and meet me at the car; go and wait for me in the car so I can fucking convince you to buy the stuff; or go back to the Land of the Rising Sun.”

“I could find him myself.”

“You couldn’t find this freak if he was listed in the Yellow Pages.”

Flood faced me, held out her hand, palm up. I gave her the spare key to the door (it won’t work the ignition), told her how to work the lock, and she about-faced and marched off. I went up the block to the News Building and dialed the guy I wanted from the pay phone on the corner. He was in. I told him what I wanted on the phone-there’s no way I’m walking into a newsroom with all those nosy clowns around. Most of the younger reporters do all their investigating over the phone, but there’re a few veterans around who’d make my face and have it filed away forever. I told the guy I’d meet him in his favorite Irish bar in an hour and hung up.

I called Mama and told her to tell Mr. James that I’d be calling him that evening at the number he’d left, unless he wanted the number changed. Then I sat down with the racing form again for a half hour before calling Maurice with twenty across the board on a trotting mare I fancied, just to let him know I hadn’t left town. When I strolled into the Irish bar I found the reporter in a booth with a folder full of newsclips. I like this kid. He graduated from Harvard, has two master’s degrees, makes fifty grand a year, and talks like a mildly retarded working-class dropout with a philosophical bent. Maybe it works on women.

“Burke, here’s the dope you wanted. What’ve you got for me?”

“Got nothing now, kid” (he hates to be called kid) “but I’m working on a real scandal over at the courthouse.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I gave you that habeus canine piece, right?”

“Big fucking deal.”

“What do you mean, big fucking deal? I bet you copped a raise for such a sensitive piece of investigative reporting.”

“Look, Burke, don’t jerk my chain. You wanted the clips, I got you the clips. I know there’s a story in this someplace, so all I’m asking is that I get in first.”

“Kid, you know I don’t talk to reporters, right?”

The kid nodded-he thinks I’m in organized crime, one of the few Irishmen to break through the Italian barriers. The closest I ever got to a mob was at a wrestling match-some lunatic paid me good money to learn the true identity of the Masked Marvel for him.