She leaned into me, head against my chest. I'd never seen a black orchid, but then I knew what one smelled like. Her hand went to the inside of my thigh. "I'll tell you a secret now. In the chair."

"Jina…"

"Please."

Such a strange word from a witch. I sat in the big chair. She squirmed into my lap, lips against my neck. I heard every word, like she was talking into my brain.

"The don can't stay in the basement. He'd lose it all. The others, they'd know. And you know what happens then. When you drop the leash, the dog bites. So every Monday night, he meets with his captain. On the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge."

"How do they work it?"

"The captain's boys park on the Manhattan side. The don's boys park on the Queens side. Then they walk across. Soldiers in front, soldiers behind. They do their business and they go back."

"Every Monday night."

"At one in the morning."

She turned sideways so her thigh was across my lap. "I'm a good girl," she whispered in that witchy little girl's voice. Reaching for my crotch. Nobody home.

"Let the beast out," she said. "I know what to do with him."

"Ssssh" I said in the darkness. Patting her just above her hips, stroking her back. "It doesn't matter. There is no beast. You are a good girl, Jina."

Her hand came away from my crotch, pulled gently at a button on my shirt. "Sleepy," she said.

I shifted my weight. Her skirt rode up. A faint trail of light on her stockings. I wrapped my other arm around her, rocked her gently. "It's okay, girl."

She took my thumb into her mouth. Didn't bite it this time, or suck on it. Just left it there, touching it with her tongue. Made a quiet noise in her throat.

I held her for a long time while she slept.

"WAKE UP," is the first thing I heard. She was still there, face softened by sleep, hair tousled.

"I'm awake."

"It'll be light soon. Time for you to go."

"Yeah."

She got off my lap, pulled her skirt down. Shook her hair loose. The sleep fled her eyes. She bent forward, face inches from mine. The witchy hiss was back. "Julio goes too."

I nodded.

I WAS AN HOUR EARLY to the meet with Morehouse. Pansy prowled a tiny circle in front of the car while I was doing something under the hood. Nobody came close enough to find out what.

Morehouse pulled up in his Datsun, fifteen minutes late.

"I was looking for your other car, man. Been cruising the area for a half hour. I…what the fuck is that?"

"Pansy!" I snapped, throwing her a hand signal. She hit the deck, watching Morehouse like a Weight Watcher about to jump ship.

Morehouse's lip curled. "Was that a dog once? Before it swallowed a car?"

"I thought all West Indians loved dogs."

"No, man, you got it wrong. All West Indians are dogs. Just ask my girlfriend. Anyway, I got what you wanted."

"I just hope it's not that fairy story about the old man being holed up in a fortress in Sands Point."

Morehouse was too cool to give it all away, but his eyes slid away from me just far enough to let me know I'd hit the target. "Well, that's what's on the street."

"Yeah. And Donny Manes stabbed himself to death."

"Hey, man, that was the word. Is the word. From on high."

"From on the pad."

"I didn't say that."

"Okay. Thanks anyway."

"That's it?"

"What else is there?"

"Our trade, man. What is wrong with you? I'm not done- I can still come up with the winner. Italians dropping like World War II out there. You were right. Something's coming. And I want to be in the paper with it first."

"I get it, you'll get it, okay? I may have something else for you too. Interested in a cult that traffics in babies?"

"Adoption ring?"

"No. A breeder farm. Using little girls just about old enough to bleed."

"You know I am."

"Want to help out?"

"How?" Suspicion all over his face.

"Switch cars with me."

"What would you want with this old wreck?" he asked, waving his hand at his city-beater.

I pointed at his license plates. NYP. New York Press. Everyone in this city has special plates: doctors, dentists, chiropractors. Everybody but lawyers- it wouldn't be safe for them. "Your plates go anywhere. And even the Italians won't dust a reporter."

"What's this got to do with the baby-seller?"

"Everything."

He reached in his pocket. Tossed me his keys. "Registration's in the glove compartment."

"Mine too."

Morehouse was born to be a reporter. He walked to the Buick, opened the door, one eye on Pansy. He pulled the papers out of the glove box. "Who's Juan Rodriguez?"

"Quién quiere saber?"

He laughed.

I snapped my fingers, opened the door to Morehouse's wreck. Pansy launched herself into the back seat. "I'll call you," I told him.

He stood close to me, voice low. "Burke, there's one thing they say about West Indians that is true. We do love children."

I PARKED Morehouse's car behind the restaurant, let myself in through the kitchen. Stashed Pansy in the basement. Grabbed the pay phone. Rang Wesley's number. Three times. Hung up.

I was on my second helping of soup when the phone rang. "What?"

"Time to meet."

"You got it?"

"Yeah."

"Tonight. Same deal."

"Right."

"Bring the Chinaman."

When Max came in, I was working on a plate of fried rice with Mongolian ginger-beef I told him we had a meeting that night. He had his own sign for Wesley: an X drawn in salt spilled on the table.

Mama gave me a gallon container of steaming meat and vegetables to take down to Pansy.

Max showed me a copy of the racing form. I shook my head. No. Not yet. But when he dug out a deck of cards, it was okay. We played gin until it got dark. Immaculata came in with Flower. Max took the child from her, parading into the kitchen to show the assorted criminals working back there his prize.

"Hi, Mac."

She leaned over. Kissed me. "Max is back, Burke. I don't know what you…"

I held up my hand. "It's not over yet."

"It doesn't matter. Whatever happens." She bowed. As if to fate.

I took Pansy back to the office. Showered. Changed my clothes. Lit a smoke and watched the darkness outside my window.

MAX RAPPED a knuckle against the windshield as I pulled off the road. I looked where he pointed- a tiny Day-Glo orange dot glowing to the side. It blinked off as I watched. I braked gently, waiting. The light glowed again. Okay. We left the Datsun by the side of the road, walked in the direction of the light, Max first.

Under the network of girders the wind made hunting sounds. The light didn't go on again, but Max walked like he was following a neon strip in the dark. He stopped when we came to a clearing in the jungle. Broken glass on the ground. Tire carcasses. Rotting pieces of car upholstery. Discarded furniture. Shipping crates. A bicycle without wheels. Max slapped his hand lightly against my chest. Stop. Here.

I lit a cigarette, tiny red light of my own. A siren screamed above us. An ambulance- racing the hospital against the morgue.

Wesley was in front of us, just a thin strip of his face showing.

"How's he do that?" he asked me.

"What?"

"He can't hear, right? But he don't make a sound when he moves."

"I don't know," I told him. Not blowing him off- it was the truth. "That's the real reason they call him Max the Silent."

"That isn't your car."