“It’s going to rain?” I asked the Prophet.

“It will rain,” he promised.

“What happened to seven-twenty-seven?”

“It was the wrong plane, my son. The number came seven-forty-seven. When you work with me, you have to think big.”

“So it was my fault?”

“God gives the word-mortals interpret the word of God. There is more than a single version of the Bible, and for good reason.”

“Do you think you might be persuaded to give the word to an individual here on earth?”

“This is always possible,” he said. “Are you going to finish that sandwich?”

“No,” I said, and shoved it across, signaling to Ricardo to give him whatever he wanted to drink. Ricardo appeared, looked questioningly at the Prophet, who asked, “Buttermilk?” smiling his sweet smile.

Ricardo served it up like he had a call for buttermilk every day. Maybe he did.

I turned to the Prof. “You know a halfass pimp named Dandy?”

The Prof handled the segue back to the prison yard without breaking stride. “I got the slant on the whole plant, Burke. He’s a new boy, green to the scene-talks a tough game but he hasn’t been with us long.”

“The word is he won’t be with us much longer if he doesn’t change his ways.”

“Talk to me,” said the Prof.

“Let me put it this way,” I said. “Sometimes you have to play the same hand you deal to other people.”

“What goes around, comes around-true enough. Who’s down on his case?”

“Among others, Max the Silent.”

“Max? Max the life-taking, widow-making, silent wind of death?”

“The same.”

“I got the message, Burke. The Prof will not be around when the shit comes down.”

“No, that’s not it, Prof. I want this fool to understand what he’s playing with, okay? I want to send him a message.”

“Which is…?”

“Clean up his act or take it on the road… alone.”

The Prof thought for a minute. “Leave his string behind, is that it?”

“As far as I know, he’s got no string-just one lady, and he’s working her too hard.”

“I got it. And I’ll give him the word. Can I tell him in public?”

“Why?”

“Look, Burke, I got to survive on these streets too. If I lay the message on him and he doesn’t listen, then Max moves on him, right?”

“Right.”

“So people connect me with Max-that’s a better insurance policy than Prudential.”

“Good enough. But he’s supposed to be a nasty bastard, Prof-he may not take the message too well.”

“If he wants to play, he’s got to pay,” said the Prof, and I put a pair of tens into his hand. He slid off the barstool, turned, and said: “What’s the word?”

“If there’s a reason, there’s a season?” I ventured.

“Yes, and if it’s truth, it can’t be treason,” he replied, and vanished into the daylight outside.

I left a ten on the bar for Ricardo and followed in the Prophet’s footsteps. At the rate this case was going I could end up on welfare-or veteran’s assistance, or disability, workman’s compensation, unemployment, or any of the other government paths to a regular income. I hoped not-it was a drag keeping track of all that paperwork.

I WALKED A few blocks through the sunlight, found a pay phone, and called Flood. Someone else answered. “Ms. Flood is instructing.” I hung up while she was saying something about leaving a message. Walked another few blocks to another phone and called Mama. I told her I’d be over and hung up on her too when she started going on about being careful with bad people. After walking crosstown all the way to the West Side I got into a cab and told the driver to cruise down West Street. I got off near the World Trade Center, bought a copy of that night’s Harness Lines, and took my time strolling back to the office.

I passed an OTB parlor on the way. I don’t do business with them-at least I don’t place bets-but I do have one of those plastic credit cards that says I have a telephone account. Very useful. Not for betting on the phone, but for using the City of New York as a courier service. Here’s how it works: let’s say you’re rolling down the street carrying cash and some people know about it. They’d like to talk to you. So you duck into an OTB and make a cash deposit to your telephone account. You fill out a deposit slip just like in a bank, and they give you a stamped piece of paper for a receipt. Then you light a cigarette with the receipt and go back outside. If the people waiting ask you to step into their car and they search you, there’s no cash. They conclude you weren’t carrying the money on that particular occasion. Then, when you want your cash, you go to the main OTB branch on Forty-first Street, give them your account number and code word, and they give you a check that’s as good as gold. You can either mail the check to yourself or walk a half-block and turn it into cash. It’s a fine way to move money around the city, and OTB doesn’t charge a cent for the service. Even the checks are free.

When I got back to the office I let Pansy run on the roof again. She looked as calm as usual but that didn’t mean much-dogs don’t have long memories. The phone line was clear so I tried Flood again.

“Ms. Flood, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“You’re great at disgusing your voice, Flood.”

“Burke?”

“Yep.”

“I went to the court and-”

“Save it. Not on the phone. I’ll-”

“But listen-”

“Flood! Give it a rest. I can’t talk on this phone, okay? I’ll pick you up tonight, your place, at seven, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Can you wait in the lobby downstairs? Move out when you see the car?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t sound so depressed, kid. It’s coming soon.”

“Okay,” as flat as ever.

“Later, Flood.” I hung up.

I cruised over to Mama’s in the Plymouth, parked around the back, and went through the kitchen to look through the glass. The place was empty except for some dregs from the late lunchtime crowd. Stepping through the kitchen door sideways I entered the restaurant from the back like I’d been in the bathroom. I sat down at the last booth in the rear, the one with the half-eaten food standing around on the plates, and one of Mama’s waiters approached. “Will there be anything else?” I don’t know how Mama trained them, but they were good-I’d obviously been here for the past hour or so. I told the waiter I was satisfied and lit an after-lunch cigarette.

When the rest of the crowd moved out Mama left her place by the cash register in front and came over to sit with me. The waiter cleared off the table and I ordered some eggdrop soup and Mongolian beef with fried rice. Mama told the waiter to bring her some tea. “What is happening, Burke?”

“The usual stuff, Mama.”

“Those men on the phone-bad men, right?”

“Not bad like dangerous, Mama-just bad like lousy, you know?”

“Yes, I know, I hear in their voice, okay? Could be very bad people if you afraid of them, right?”

“Oh yeah, fear would make them tough for sure.”

“Max help you?”

“Sometimes.”

“I mean with those men, okay?”

“Max is my friend, Mama. He would help me and I would help him, understand?”

“I understand. Beef good?”

“The beef is perfect.”

“Not too hot?”

“Just right.”

“Cook very old. Sometimes you do thing long time you get very good, right? Some things you do too long, not so good.”

“Like me?”

“You not so old yet, Burke.” Max suddenly materialized at Mama’s elbow. She slid over in the booth to make room for him and signaled for more tea. Mama thought tea was important to Max’s continued growth and development. Max seemed indifferent to the entire issue. “Do all Chinese people believe in tea?” I asked her.

“All Chinese people not same, Burke. You know this, right?”

“I just meant, is it a cultural thing, Mama? Like when the Irish drink beer even when they don’t like it?”