For some reason, it took me a long time to get dressed that morning. I put on a suit, got out my overcoat with all the extra pockets in it, and put in my little tape recorder and the clip-on thing for my shirt pocket that looks like the top of a ballpoint pen-when you flick it to the side, about six feet of car antenna comes out like a steel whip. It’s only good for people who like to work with knives, and the people I was going to see only worked with guns, but I didn’t think it would be a straight path to them. Anyway, I planned to be on the street when I called this Mr. James.

I fixed Pansy up with extra water and left her some dry food in the washtub she uses for a dinner bowl. Then I went down to the garage, got the gun out of its usual place, emptied it, and replaced the slugs with some hollow points that an associate had thoughtfully filled with mercury. Next I dug out the long-barreled Ruger.22 automatic. It holds nine shots, counting the chamber-I put in four filled with birdshot, two mini-flares, and two teargas capsules. Perfect for a roomful of people and no good for much else. The.22 went inside the door panel on the driver’s side and the.38 went back where it belonged. I pulled out. The gas gauge said I had half a tank, which meant more than twenty gallons. The garage is always heated so I don’t worry about it not starting when it gets low. I’d fill up later when I got my money from Maurice.

Every time I get a little ahead I always buy some clothes, give Mama some money to hold as credit for Maurice and other emergencies, and give the car whatever it needs at the time. A couple of weeks ago I had to go into my stash at Mama’s because there was an epidemic of a lethal dog disease called Parvo virus going around. The vaccine was in short supply and I had to go for seventy-five bucks just for two ready-to-inject needles from this vet I know. I always give Pansy her shots myself-the needles don’t bother her, but strangers do.

I drove down by the Hudson on West Street near the docks, under what would be the West Side Highway if construction ever got down this far. I cruised over to one of the piers, backed the car in so I was facing the street, and waited. The Plymouth looked enough like the law to keep the locals away for a while, but it wouldn’t last. I just sat there, playing the radio softly and smoking. You can’t be in a hurry working down here-you have to settle in. One of them finally approached, slowly. She was of medium height and had ridiculously high spike heels topped by black pencil-leg pants, a wide belt to emphasize the narrow waist, a quasi-silk blouse and a shoulder-length red wig. Skinny and pale, even though she worked out here in the sun. A veteran, she walked carefully through the rubble without once tripping on the high heels. She approached the Plymouth. “Hi. Looking for a party?”

“No, I’m waiting for a friend.”

“Anybody I know, baby?”

“I hope so. I’m looking for Michelle.”

“I don’t know any Michelle, sweetheart. But whatever she can do, I can do.”

“I’m sure that’s true-but it’s Michelle I need to talk to.”

“Let me see your badge first, baby.”

“I’m not the heat. I’m a friend of Michelle’s.”

“Baby, Michelle don’t work anymore.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I’d love to stand around talking to you, baby. But if you don’t want to party, I’ve got to run along, okay?”

“Whatever you say. But tell Michelle that Burke’s looking for her-tell her I’m right here.”

She turned and wiggled away to show me what I’d missed by opting for Michelle’s brand of party, but at least she wasn’t aggressive about it.

I sat and waited. Two men walked by, one guy’s hand on the neck of the other, and ducked into one of the abandoned buildings on the pier. I’d gone into one of those once, at night, looking for a runaway kid. I didn’t find him. I wouldn’t go back in there again without Pansy.

About an hour later, I saw her starting to walk over this way again. I eased the.22 out of the door pocket and held it down against the floor with my left hand. She took her time about getting over to me. I didn’t move, didn’t turn the radio down. I wanted a smoke, but didn’t reach for one.

“Remember me, baby?”

“Yes.”

“I heard Michelle was going to be down on Pier Forty in a few minutes. Now I don’t know if this is straight or not, you know. But I just heard it, you understand?”

“Thank you. I appreciate you coming over to give me the message.”

“It’s not a message, baby. It’s just something I heard, okay?”

“Whatever you say.”

She just stood there by the car. I slowly reached out to the dashboard for my cigarettes. Held out the pack to her. She took one and moved closer for me to light it for her. “I heard something else, baby.”

“And what’s that?”

“I heard that sometimes, if a working girl had troubles with her man, that you’d talk to her man for her.”

“You hear that from Michelle?”

“Michelle don’t have no man. You know that.”

“Yes, I know. So?”

“I do.”

“Yeah?”

“And I just heard that sometimes you’d talk to a girl’s man if there was a problem.”

“You’ve got to be more specific.”

“My man’s black.”

Not a muscle shifted in my face as she studied it carefully. “So?”

“That doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“There’s pressure on now. There’s some people moving into things. People who hate niggers.”

“Moving into what?”

“Into the Square. With kiddie stuff-pictures, films, like that.”

“And?”

“I already said enough-maybe it wouldn’t work anyway, it’s just stuff I heard. Look, I just did you a favor, right?”

“If Michelle’s on Forty, you did.”

“She’ll be there, baby. I just did you a favor. If I needed one back, could I call you?”

I looked at her, trying to see the face behind the makeup, trying to see the skull behind the face. The sun was in her eyes, bouncing off the dark glasses she wore. I couldn’t see anything. Her hands were shaking some.

“You can call me at this number, anytime between ten in the morning and midnight,” I said, telling her Mama’s pay phone. She didn’t say a word, just moved her lips several times memorizing the number. Then she walked away again, without the exagerated wiggle this time. I started the engine, let it idle a minute, tossed the smoke out the window (you can’t use the ashtrays in this car), and took off for Pier Forty.

I spotted Michelle as soon as I pulled up. She was wearing a big floppy white hat, like you’d see in a plantation movie. It should have looked stupid with the blue jeans and a sweat shirt with some jerko designer’s name on it, but it didn’t. Before I turned off the engine she was already walking over to me. She jumped in on the passenger side, slammed the door behind her, leaned over to whip a quick kiss on my cheek, and draped herself back against the door. “Hi, Burke.”

“What’s happening, Michelle?”

“The usual, darling. The bloody usual. It’s getting harder and harder for an honest person to make a living in this town.”

“I’ve heard that. Listen, Michelle, I need some information about a guy who’s holed up somewhere near here. A stone freak, maybe a baby raper.”

Michelle looked over at me, giggled, said, “I’m your man,” and giggled some more. She’s not too concerned anymore about being what she is, says even the truckdrivers who pay her for some fast work with her mouth know she’s not a woman. She says they like it better that way-who knows?

“All I know about this guy is his name, Martin Howard Wilson. He calls himself the Cobra.”

Michelle cracked up. “The Cobra! Jesus have mercy-he’s not a snake-fucker, is he?”

“I don’t know, what’s a snake-fucker?”

“You know, Burke, the kind of guy who’d fuck a bush if he thought there might be a snake in it.”

“No, that’s not our boy. I don’t really know too much about him-no description, just the name and the nickname. But I thought you might have heard the name yourself-maybe have something for me.”