I looked through the newsclips the kid got me from the morgue. My man was there, all right, just like I thought-Martin H. Wilson, arrested on charges of rape and sodomy of three Puerto Rican kids. No more on that story. Then Martin Wilson arrested on rape, sodomy, and murder charges of Sadie’s kid, D.A. asks $100,000 bail at arraignment. Then later on, court orders competency hearing after Wilson’s defense attorney says he’s a victim of Agent Orange poisoning in Vietnam. Then the other clips-I had a hunch about why Wilson wasn’t in the can waiting on a trial. Yeah, there it was: Elijah Slocum, major kiddie-porn dealer, arrested at his mansion in Riverdale by detectives from the Bronx D.A.’s office following a six-month investigation by undercover operatives. Slocum posts $250,000 bail, claims he was set up by his “enemies.” Slocum moves to reduce bail; several prominent citizens testify as character witnesses; case still pending.

Good enough. There was no picture of Wilson but I didn’t expect one. A Daily News photo would never be good enough anyway. All I really wanted were the dates. I put them in my memory, shook my head sadly, and handed the clips back to the kid. “Well, it was a long shot anyway.”

“This stuff is no good?”

“You got me what I asked for-I just came up empty, that’s all. Listen, I still figure I owe you one, okay?”

The kid nodded glumly, swallowed his beer in a single throw and signaled to the barmaid for another as I was getting up to leave. I said I’d give him a call. He mumbled “God bless” and started on another brew. I walked four blocks west, caught a cab, told the driver I wanted the U.N. Building, and got off near Forty-ninth Street and First Avenue. Then I walked down to the river and south to the car where Flood was sitting in front seat reading a newspaper.

I let myself in, noticing the packages piled on the back seat. So far, so good. Flood looked at me expectantly. “I’ll explain when we get to the office,” I said, eased the Plymouth into gear, and set off for downtown.

HALFWAY DOWN THE FDR I realized that I wasn’t acting like I’d been trained to-I couldn’t really bring Flood back to the office without showing her too much. And I wasn’t ready to do that. “Flood, is anyone using your studio this time of day?”

“Why?” She was obviously going to stay hostile until I came up with some answers for her.

“Well, I can’t bring you back to the office without deactivating the dog, and that could take a couple of hours. Besides, I don’t want to do any business with clients until we’ve wrapped this thing up. I just want to concentrate on this.”

“There’s nobody there. They only have classes two nights and one day every week. But why can’t we go to your place?”

“I live in a hotel and there’s no way to get past the front desk without a lot of people noticing. I don’t want anyone to notice you until you’ve gotten into the disguise.”

“It must cramp your style, not being able to get by the front desk.”

“It cramps everyone’s style. That’s why I live there.”

Flood didn’t seem surprised that I knew the way to her place. I told her to go on upstairs and that I’d call her in a few minutes to see if anyone had been around asking questions. She made no move to take the packages out of the back seat when she got out.

I gave her ten minutes and called. A frigid voice just barely identifiable as Flood’s informed me that everything was as it had been and that I could come up when and if I decided to.

I carried the packages in, rang for the freight elevator, and waited until I heard it start to groan its way downstairs. Then I stepped back outside. When it came down empty. I pressed the switch to send it two floors above Flood’s place, and took the stairs-quietly. There were no sounds except the elevator. Waiting in the corridor on Flood’s floor, I heard the elevator creak to a stop somewhere above me and stepped into the studio. It was empty, the same as when I was there last. I walked back to Flood’s private place where she was sitting on the floor in that lotus position waiting for me. And my story.

I tore open the packages-tanning lotion, eyeshadow and eyeliner, a lustrous-looking black wig, a pair of pink toreador pants, a black jersey V-neck pullover, a black patent-leather belt, some black mesh pantyhose, and a pair of four-inch spikes in black pseudo-leather. Cheap junk, except for the wig. Flood said nothing, watching me.

“Okay, here’s the story. You can’t change your face, not really. But you’re going to have to be seen by some people-you dress like this and people will notice everything but your face. All they’ll remember is some pink pants and maybe black hair. Besides, you have to look kind of sexy and incompetent at the same time, because you have to ask some people for help. They won’t remember what they don’t see.”

“Burke, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Flood, for chrissakes, what’s wrong with you? You weren’t raised in a convent. The average man takes one look at you shaking it down the street in these pants and that’s all he’ll remember. What’s so goddamned hard to understand?”

“I don’t care if people know who I am or what I’m looking for.”

“Yeah, that’s right, you don’t. Either you’re going back to Japan or you’ve got some kamikaze plan-you’ll do your job and then you just don’t give a damn what happens after that. That’s not me. I do care-I don’t want people looking for me. If they have to look for you, for Flood, and they connect us up, they’ll look for me too. Get it? You just look too strange the way you’re dressed now-the way you look.”

Flood held up the pink pants. “These don’t look strange?”

I tried again. “Flood, this isn’t a question of good taste, okay? People are going to notice you no matter what, see? But there’s no way a man’s going to look at your breasts bouncing around in that sweater and at your face at the same time.”

“My breasts don’t bounce when I walk.”

“Flood, I don’t care if you’re the world’s greatest martial arts expert-I don’t care if you’re fucking Wonder Woman. You wear that sweater and no bra and your goddamned breasts will bounce.”

“Burke, you’re a lunatic. No bra with that outfit? I’d look like some moron’s version of a whore.”

“Now you got it.”

“I won’t do it.”

“The fuck you won’t. I made some major sacrifices to do this job-you can too.”

“What sacrifices did you make?”

“I had plastic surgery.”

“You had what?”

“Plastic surgery. I’m telling you the truth.”

“For this job.”

“Goddamned right. Before I took this job I used to be a male model.”

Flood tried like hell not to giggle, gave it up, tried to get a straight face again. Gave that up and started laughing. It was a great laugh-peeking between her fingers at my former-model’s face, she just plain cracked up. Finally, she came over to sit down next to me and picked up the pink pants. “Burke, I’ll look like the fat lady in the circus if I wear these.”

“You’ll look beautiful.”

“Burke, I’m serious. Some women can wear these things, but I’m not built that way. It took me about fifteen minutes to get them on in the store.”

“Oh, you already tried them on.” Flood looked down, said nothing. “Flood, you vain bitch. All this crap about clothes and it’s only because you think you don’t look good in them.”

“It’s not just that.”

“So what else is it?”

“I can’t move in them.”

“Put them on and let me see, okay?”

Flood jumped to her feet, flung off her jacket, untied the sash at her waist, and stepped aside as her slacks fell to the floor. She popped open the snaps in the crotch of her bodysuit, ripped it over her head, and grabbed the pink pants out of my hand in one vicious motion. That took about three seconds. Then she grunted and strained for about five minutes, trying to get the pants over her hips, muttering curses at me all the while, but she finally got them closed over her waist. It looked like bright new pink skin. With her hands on her hips, she glared at me, “See what I mean?”