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.

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.