

The Dealership by Michael Bronte

Copyright ©: Michael Bronte

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Thank you, Gail

Part One... Getting In

Chapter 1... Life Is Good

It was tax day, 1985, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I was brand new in sales, and I figured that what all the veterans had been bitching about was true: not a lot of people thought about buying new Jags on April 15th. It fell on a Monday, which was notoriously the slowest sales day of the week in the car business, and it didn't need any help getting slower. I was gazing idly through the huge showroom windows when my name blasted over the PA system in that obnoxious, static loudness. Madrid... salesman Carmen Madrid... You're needed at the front desk. It was my up. I wasn't disappointed when I spotted the jet-black, BMW 735i that had pulled up outside. It was one of those low-slung jobs, with tires that looked a foot wide, and tread that looked like claws. It was quite the sight when the passenger door swung open and a pair of seven-foot-long legs stepped out.

Delmo gave out a long, low whistle. "Get 'a load of this," he said, shaking his hand as if he'd just picked up a hot pot. "Hey, Madrid, I'll give you my next two ups if you let me take this one."

"Not a chance," I said straightening my tie and running a comb through my hair. It never hurt to look good for the ladies.

Looking up from his racing form when all the guys rushed to the window, Billy Gatton sprang to his feet as if he were one of the colts he'd just been reading about. "Jesus," he said. "This one's got legs all the way up to her ass."

"She sure does," I said as a smile stretched across my face. "And she's all mine." I put on my best showroom strut and popped through the front door, noticing a couple of other prominent features about her besides her legs. It wasn't until I was within ten feet of her that the driver's door swung open, and Cro-Magnon Man hoisted his beefy gut from behind the wheel. Obviously, he'd seen me coming.

"Hi there," I said as professionally as I could. It sounded good, not too greasy. "My name is Carmen—Carmen Madrid. Welcome to Fairchild MotorCars. What can we show you today?"

I always said we instead of I. It sounded a lot less intimidating that way. I shook his hand first, of course, just to make sure there was no mistake about who was boss. Good God, I thought, those boobs were as nice as her legs. I tried not to look, but I swore I saw eye imprints on them. I figured they came from behind the showroom windows, seeing as the guys were lined up like birds on a phone wire. She didn't say anything at first, but she gave me a long, leering once-over.

"Carmen, is it?" she asked huskily.

"Yes, Carmen... Madrid."

"Oooh, baby," she cooed as she latched onto Cro-Magnon Man and crushed her swollen shirt into his arm. "I just love this white one. Isn't it cute?"

I looked at the white one: a brand-new Jaguar XJS coupe, polar bear white, matching white leather interior—$37 grand. "Good choice," I said sincerely.

Cro-Magnon Man said, "Anything you want, Sweet Cakes." He glanced aggressively in my direction. "You wanna take 'er for a ride, boy?"

I'm sure he meant the car. I had the feeling he wanted to say something else, something like: You touch her, and I'll cut your ass off and feed it to you for lunch.

"Yes, sir. No problem, sir. Right this way, ma'am." I pulled open the passenger side door, noticing how her little white skirt rode up around her suzy when she got in. "Be back in a flash, sir." I ran back into the showroom thinking: You lousy sap of a sugar daddy, which I didn't say, of course.

As I picked up the key and a dealer plate, Delmo held out his hat and told me to hang it on my lap if my pants suddenly got too tight. Billy asked if I needed any help, seeing as I was new and all. "Purely out of professional courtesy," he said.

"Yeah, right, and I'm the Prince of Wales."

Cro-Magnon Man, who was in heated conversation about the Beemer when I got back, said to the seven-foot legs, "Take care of it, Sweet Cakes. Just tell me if you like it."

She'd like it, I said to myself as I pulled the door closed with an air-cushioned thud. She'd think this car would make her lunch by the time I got done. It was time to make a sale.

With the engine purring like a fat kitten, we pulled off the lot beneath the plastic multicolored pennants flapping noisily in the spring breeze. It was the first spring weekend that really felt like summer, and even Jamaica Queens had some new life to it, a shine, as it were. It certainly looked different from the skanky day-to-day filth that had accumulated over months of gritty New York winter. I don't know, maybe the filth just looked cleaner.

As me and Sweet Cakes rode down Jamaica Avenue through the bus fumes, I thought life was finally coming around my way. It wasn't that long ago that I was working back in the shop, scraping enough grease from under my fingernails at the end of the day that I could fry an egg with it, if I wanted to. Actually, I ate a lot of eggs when I worked in the shop. They were cheap. It's amazing what you'll eat when you don't have any money, isn't it? Three years I ate those damn eggs. Eggs and cereal, toast and beer, when I could afford the toast. I always made room for the beer. I thought I was never going to leave that shop, but finally I got so sick of being treated like shit that I worked up the nerve say to Big Tony—that's Big Tony DeLorenzo; he's the general manager, "Hey, Big Tony, how about a shot at sales, huh? I ain't like those other bums back there. I can speak the language, and I can look the part. I mean, how hard can it be? Some of the salesmen you got now ain't no big deal." I was careful not to use any curse words. I wanted him to think I had some class, you know what I mean?

I must have impressed him because a month later, boom, I was in sales. Finally, after breaking my ass for three years, I got a shot at making some real money and not being looked at like some piss-ant low-life. I was a salesman, selling Jaguars, Lincolns, and plain old Chevys, and I figured that if I did real good, maybe someday, you know, if I got a little lucky, maybe I could make general manager and be the man, like Big Tony, or something.

I put on my driving shades and looked to the right, making sure the traffic had stopped on Sutphin Boulevard. I noticed that the dudes on the street had stopped hawking joints for a second to check out the Jag first, and my passenger/customer second. That's when I noticed that Sweet Cakes had unbuttoned the first three buttons of her frilly little cotton shirt. There were only five buttons on the shirt. I hadn't even begun my sales presentation, and already I was tongue-tied.

"Sure is hot, isn't it Carmen?" she asked, rubbing her neck, then her throat, then down, inside her shirt where a woman's breasts begin. For a second, I thought she was wiping perspiration off her skin, except that she wasn't the one perspiring.

"Yeah," I said, "Sure is hot." I was a real conversationalist. She was rubbing those big puppies like there was no tomorrow, and I looked in the rearview mirror just to take my eyes off them. That's when I noticed that the car behind us couldn't have been more than six inches off our tail. I couldn't even tell what make it was, it was so close. The faces of the two black dudes inside took up the whole windshield, and they looked about as cheerful as Cro-Magnon Man had looked back at the lot. I sped up a little.

"Is this how you're supposed to hold this?" Sweet Cakes asked.

I looked down and saw her left hand on the stick shift, stroking it, rubbing the big knob, her long, pink-nailed fingers going up and down, then up and down again. Her other hand continued to rub the inside of her shirt, but I'm sure if there had been any perspiration there, it would have been wiped away by then. Man, I thought, wishing I'd brought that hat Delmo had tried to give me, I sure could have used a soda.

"Mmmmm," she sighed breathlessly. "Mmmmm, I love this car. Don't you, Carmen honey?"

Damn! I thought. She was starting to get the wetties right there in the front seat. Her right hand came out from inside the shirt and slid down to.... Jesus Mother Mary! Suddenly, I pictured Cro-Magnon Man's aggressive glance, and wondered if my ass tasted like shit. I figured I'd have an aversion to eating it. I had to do... something.

As we stopped at a light, I pressed a button and something hummed. "Now, the sound system in this car—"

"Oh, screw the sound system, Carmen honey. I've got a better idea. C'mon, I know a place near here that rents rooms by the hour. Let's go for it." Her hand disappeared up her skirt.

Now, I never professed to be an expert in this sort of situation—hell, I'd never even been in this situation—but at twenty-three, I'd been around the block once or twice, so, to me, "C'mon, Carmen, let's go for it," sounded pretty much like she was in the mood.

Suddenly, it was six hundred degrees on Jamaica Avenue. The light must have turned green while I was fumbling for the air conditioning switch, and the deafening horn blast from behind reminded me that green means go. I punched the Jag, leaving a little squeal on the pavement, and when I looked into the rearview mirror I noticed that, again, my entire mirror was taken up by the two huge heads. It looked like they were in my back seat. I remembered I was driving a $37,000-dollar Jag, so I punched it again, trying to put some distance between us and the two idiots in the whatever-it-was they were driving.

"Asshole," I said, half-flooring the Jag as I tried to make the light at Jamaica Avenue and Frances Lewis Boulevard. The Jag bottomed so hard that Sweet Cakes could have impaled herself on her fingers. Wondering what I was cursing about, she turned and looked back through the rear windshield.

"Shit!"

"Shit? What'dya mean, shit? Do you know them?"

"Drive faster! We gotta get the hell outta here! Go, now!"

"Faster? I'm already doing fifty-five, on Jamaica Avenue! Jesus lady, this car costs $37,000 bucks!" The big heads made it through the intersection not three feet off our bumper. When I glanced into the rearview, I noticed one of the heads had disappeared. "What the...?"

"Faster!" Sweet Cakes screamed.

I looked across the front seat through the passenger side window. The head! It was there, on the other side of Sweet Cakes' tits, bouncing up and down in the side mirror as the Jag ripped through the potholes. Then, I saw.... What was that—a gun? A gun! "Jesus!" I hollered as I floored the Jag. Sweet Cakes slammed into the back of her seat, forcing her to point her now perspiration-laden, quivering knockers straight to the stars. Quickly, I swung the wheel hard right, sailing the back end of the Jag into a screeching circle and barely missing the biggest truck in North America. I let up just in time, preventing the back end from smashing into oncoming traffic. From zero gas, I floored it once more, sending the rear wheels into a spinning, screeching frenzy. The engine roared in pain, while smoke swirled off the tires and made huge white clouds in the sunshine. The smell of burnt rubber was everywhere inside the Jag, and Sweet Cakes was nothing but a statue with nipples, frozen in her seat.

When the smoke cleared and I saw that there was no one behind us, I let up a little, fearing I'd either kill myself, or crap my pants, not knowing which was worse. I had breath again, so I took it in great, gulping gasps, feeling my heartbeat in my fingertips. I eased up a little more—huge mistake. Out of nowhere, the heads reappeared, this time with teeth bared. I didn't even have time to floor the Jag again. The head on the passenger side leaned out, and BOOM! It was shooting—I mean, the dude was—something huge, and the blast rang out onto Frances Lewis Boulevard. BOOM! A second shot rang out, ripping a hole clean through the passenger side mirror and sending fragments of exploding glass into the atmosphere like fairy dust. I floored the Jag and prayed with all my might that we make it to the Van Wyck Expressway where surely, I hoped, I could lose these cowboys before they killed me.

At 115 miles an hour, when I didn't see anyone behind us who could keep up, I let up on the gas. It's not as if I had much choice, as we were quite quickly approaching a sea of red taillights stopped dead outside Kennedy Airport.

I found out that Jags handle okay at 115 miles an hour. I didn't make the sale.

Chapter 2... On the Carpet

I was off that Sunday, and, as you might imagine, it was a pretty crummy day off. I spent the whole day wondering if Big Tony was going to put me on the chopping block. By the time I'd gotten back from the test drive with Sweet Cakes the night before, it was almost nine o'clock and almost everyone was gone. Cro-Magnon Man was still there, however, leaning against the Beemer with his big hairy arms folded across his gut. He was clearly steamed, and I thought surely he was going to beat the hell out of me, but Sweet Cakes explained everything. She said the heads had probably mistaken me for him, but I don't think he believed her until he saw that mirror. It had a huge hole in it, and the metal was splayed like a metal star. When he saw that, his body language did a distinct about-face.

He looked around nervously. "Anybody follow you, boy?"

"I don't think so. I'm sure I lost them." I sounded like Dick Tracy.

"Sure you did, numb-nuts, but they know where this car came from, don't they?" He took Sweet Cakes by the arm, and said, "We gotta go." His fat gut bounced furiously as he hurried to the Beemer, while with her, well, you know what was bouncing, and they and blasted off.

"No, really, I'm okay, and you're welcome—asshole!" I yelled to the escaping BMW. Then, I realized he was right. The heads could very easily have known where the white Jag had come from, and suddenly I knew I shouldn't be anywhere near that car. I parked it in a remote spot on the lot where it would be impossible to see it from the street, and quickly dropped the key and the dealer plate into the service slot. Then, I hauled ass to the subway stop at Parsons Boulevard and Hillside Avenue, looking around the whole time as I walked. I guess I was still kind of tense, seeing as I'd never been shot at before, and I must have smelled like a nervous rabbit. There aren't a lot of white faces on the streets of Jamaica at night, and all the dudes must have picked up on my vibes. I guess they thought I was scared of them, which I wasn't, but it was like wolves circling wounded prey.

"Wha'chu doin' here, man?" one ugly, veiny black dude said just as I approached the steps to the subway. For the first time in my life, I welcomed the smell of urine and vomit that always signaled the entrance to that subway stop. Luckily, the F train was pulling in just as I banged through the turnstile. It seemed like it took forever to get to my stop in Elmhurst, and I was jumpy as hell the whole way. I bought a six-pack from the Six Brothers Greek deli and popped one open right on the street as I dodged the crack dealers on Junction Boulevard. I drank it down before I reached my building, and I finished the rest of the six-pack in half an hour—on an empty stomach—then went into the bathroom and barfed it up. I'd never rented beer before.

When I went into work Monday afternoon—I was on the late shift Monday—everyone stopped talking when I walked down salesmen's row. Salesmen's row was the line of desks where the salesmen hung out and told dirty jokes when they didn't have customers. Billy Gatton quickly yanked me through the curtain of silence before I got within sight of the tower.

That was where Big Tony hung out. It was at the far end of the showroom, six steps above the shiny tiles where the new cars were displayed. It was actually nothing but an open office surrounded by a half wall, but Big Tony surveyed his kingdom from the tower on an ongoing basis, keeping track of the up desk, listening to deals from the cubicles, checking out the babes as they meandered around the showroom.

Billy shielded me from view as he hissed through his teeth, "What the fuck happened to you Saturday night?" His breath smelled like vodka.

I didn't get a chance to answer as Big Tony's voice came soothingly across the PA system. It was calm, and mellifluous, and I knew immediately that my ass was grass and he was the lawn mower. "Mister Madrid, report to the tower, p-l-e-a-s-e."

"Oh-oh," said Billy.

Now, Big Tony DeLorenzo stood about six-foot-four, weighed about three-sixty, and was known to be quite intimidating. He cruised the tower the way a captain cruised the bridge of an ocean liner, except that Big Tony didn't wear some stupid sailor suit with little gold stripes on it. Big Tony wore immaculately pressed, fifteen hundred-dollar suits that hung perfectly around his huge girth as if they'd been sewn by the gods. Big Tony's custom shirts had to cost a hundred bucks apiece, and one of his ties probably cost more than what I spent on groceries in a week. I'd been in sales three months, and I'd never seen Big Tony wear the same suit twice. I figured he just threw them away.

I slinked through a gauntlet of stares and gingerly stepped up the stairway of death. I speculated that climbing the steps to a guillotine would have felt like that.

"Sit," Big Tony ordered calmly while he finished scribbling on a piece of paper.

I sat, and waited nervously while he scooted around in his big leather chair and did whatever he did. That chair looked like it was part of his body, and I figured it too must have been custom made. It was common knowledge around the dealership that no one, ever, sat in Big Tony's chair, not even customers, and especially not their snotty-nosed kids. Even if Big Tony wasn't there, which was rare—he worked fifteen hours a day, sometimes longer—everyone who visited the tower used one of the leather chairs in front of his huge mahogany desk.

Customers were always overwhelmed when they sat up there. Big Tony smiled, and acted like their best friend, and eventually they walked away thinking they'd just struck some great deal, when, in actuality, Big Tony could have been arrested for unarmed robbery. They got fleeced, and thanked Big Tony for doing it to them.

I looked around as he continued to ignore me, and the sweet aroma from his herb plants wafted past my nose. Rosemary, basil, and sage, I think they were. I waited for him to say something, but he let me stew, and it was killing me. His perfectly smooth face was cool and dry, while mine was trembling.

"So," he finally said. "The word around here is that someday you wanna be the general manager of this place. Is that right, son?" His eyes were deathly dark.

"That's just small talk for now, Big Tony. You know how that goes. Maybe someday, though."

"Well, you may not make it, kid. Why don't you tell me what happened to the white Jag before I decide whether or not I'm going to fire your skinny ass."

I swallowed hard. "Well, Big Tony, you see, it's like this...."

Big Tony didn't say a word. He just sat there, listening calmly, and it drove me crazy. Occasionally, I got a little, "Uh-huh," or something, but basically he just let me ramble on about the puppy rubbing, the stick shift stroking, everything. "I'm telling you. This girl was coming on to me big time," I said.

When I was done, he said, "Tell me again."

"The whole thing?"

"From the beginning."

So, I told him again, exactly as I'd told him the first time. Again, he listened calmly, the light reflecting off his slicked hair as he burned a hole into me.

Finally, he said, "I believe you kid. No one could lie that good twice in a row. But you're gonna have to pay for the mirror."

"But... it wasn't my fault."

Tony held up his hand. "Your fault, my fault, nobody's fault, I don't give a shit. You'd better sell enough damned cars to cover it."

It had been decided. I was dismissed. It was either pay for the mirror, or kiss the dealership goodbye.

Chapter 3... Marching With The Band

I expected some sympathy from Billy Gatton.

"I been there before," Billy said coldly. "That's the way it's done. You fuck up, you pay."

"It ain't right."

"It might not be, but bitching about it ain't gonna do no good. It's always been like that."

I wondered what always was. "How long you been working here, Billy?"

"Twelve, thirteen years, I guess. I was here even before it was called Fairchild MotorCars."

"I remember that," I said. I'd been walking by the dealership since I was a kid. "That was before the big red sign, right?"

"Right," said Billy, spitting something from between his teeth. He went on to tell me about the old days, before some high-rolling dude from the city—that's Manhattan—came into the picture.

"Who was he?"

"One of those investment guys who had one of those first names that was just an initial. His name was L. Burton Fairchild."

"And he bought this place? Why?"

"Jamaica Chevrolet was losing money big time, and this Fairchild chump thought he knew the car business."

"Did he?"

Billy shrugged. "Didn't matter. He bought the place regardless, changed the name, and put up a big new sign; started selling really hot shit cars, too."

I remembered how the name change had been a big deal on Jamaica Avenue back then. I was only about fifteen at the time, and I was still living in Jamaica with my folks. The reason I remember is because there was a lot of talk about how the neighborhood was going to hell. That was in 1977, right when the city had just torn down the el, and even though most people thought the neighborhood had already made the trip, it got worse.

Jamaica's personality changed without that el. It was always cool and dark on the street when that el was there, and the ground shook whenever a train thundered over those elevated tracks. Between the train noise, and brakes that squealed like demons when the trains stopped, the streets were in a constant uproar, but it was sort of the lifeblood of Jamaica Avenue. It gave the street a pulse, a strange, morbid vitality that never stopped despite the creepy darkness that made it feel as if the el covered the whole world.

As eerie as it was with the el in place, the street looked deformed when the el came down. It was as if part of it had been amputated, and indeed the cut off steel columns that remained looked like leg stumps. The Woolworth store looked a lot smaller in the sunlight, and the fronts of the buildings suddenly showed their age like an old woman's reflection in a makeup mirror. The buildings weren't works of art to begin with, but the el just absorbed all the attention. With it gone, the dirt and squalor of the street stood out even more. Suddenly, there were more newspapers blowing about. The potholes looked bigger in the daylight. The derelicts and the druggies smelled worse when they sweated in the sunshine. Sometimes, when a big rain came, I remember it looked as if all the grime and rubble would wash into the sewer, but there was never enough rain. Jamaica Avenue was still scuzzy afterwards, only then it was a wet scuzzy, and the sidewalks kind of stuck to your feet.

When the Fairchild MotorCars sign went up, there was a lot of buzzing that Jamaica was in for some kind of urban renewal, but it never happened. Jamaica Queens continued as the slummy commercial center that it was. The old white people from Hollis only came out during the day, and the only businesses that stayed open past six o'clock were the ones where the owners carried .38s in their pockets. Now, there was just a huge sign with six-foot-high red letters, lighting the grime at night so that it could be seen with a strange cast to it.

"So that's when you started working at the dealership? Did you make any money back then?"

"I've always made money, kid. I just made more when the expensive cars came on board. The sticker prices were up, and so were the commissions. I made a shitload of money."

I heard that one year Billy topped fifty grand, but you'd never know it by looking at him. "What do you do with all your money, Billy?"

"None of your fucking business, kid."

I really didn't need an answer anyway. I think that between the cigarettes, and the coke, Billy either sucked fifty grand up his nose, or into his lungs. Billy never had any money, even though he or Delmo were always at the top of the sales list. I don't know how Billy did it. He dressed crummy; his face always had a half-day's growth on it, and his tie was always sloppy. Even his teeth were never white enough, but he always sold cars.

"What's your secret?" I asked.

"You gotta tell the maggots what they wanna hear," he scoffed. "They don't know the fucking difference. 'You want the car repainted? Sure no problem. You want to install four-wheel drive on that $20,000 Lincoln? We'll take care of it.'"

"You say shit like that?"

"If I can get away with it."

"If I did stuff like that, Big Tony would bounce my ass down Jamaica Avenue in about ten seconds."

"SOP," said Billy, taking a huge drag on his cigarette. "None of that matters as long as you get cars out the door. That's the name of the game. Big Tony might curse you out if you do something really stupid, but that's the worst of it. Just get the fuckin' cars over the curb, kid."

"You've had to pay for things out of your pocket?" I asked.

"Lots of times. Ain't no big fuckin' deal. Hey, if you wanna play with the big boys, you gotta march with the band."

I didn't know what that meant exactly, but I got the drift.

Billy was one of the big boys, as he characterized it. Delmo was the other, but I'll tell you about Delmo later. The only reason I'm bringing it up is because I was tight with both of them. Well, tighter than with the other guys, at least.

We had big boys, but no big girls on the sales floor. Not a lot of them applied. Finding a white woman to sell cars in Jamaica Queens was like walking to the moon, and the black women who applied were mostly girls-from-the-hood types who thought they were tough and could handle it. We'd tried a couple of them out, but they couldn't take the snaking. They just weren't strong enough, or bitchy enough, to hold their own, so they got squashed. The only reason I didn't get squashed is because I'd worked in get-ready and in the shop—or the service department, as the customers called it; that was kind of joke, too—and I got to know Billy and Delmo pretty well, seeing as they brought the most cars back there. By the number of cars they brought back to get-ready, I calculated once about how much money they must make. My eyes got real big when I looked at the figure. That's when I started thinking about going into sales. It was because they got to like me, I think, that Big Tony gave me a shot. When the other guys on the floor saw that I was sort of tight with Billy and Delmo, they didn't try to squash me too bad. Some tried, but I'd been around the dealership for a while too, and I didn't take their shit. Billy and Delmo backed me up most of the time, and I liked the respect that came from it. I liked the feeling of being able to make money, and look good doing it. I liked the feeling of being accepted as one of the guys, and driving around in hot cars. I liked looking cool, and, while I ain't no movie star, I looked okay most of the time. I looked better than Billy, anyway, and I'd even had a lady or two tell me I was kinda hot. All I had to do was to have the money to go along with the image. I was on my way, too.

"How many cars you sold this month?" I asked curiously, wondering how I measured up to one of the big boys.

"If you can keep track of 'em," said Billy knowingly, "you ain't makin' no money."

He was right. It was my third month in sales. The first month I spent more or less in training, which consisted of watching a few lousy tapes, and standing around picking my ass while the experienced guys took my ups. But, I did learn something. There was more to selling cars than you might think. Sure, you had to know something about the cars, but that wasn't the most important thing. Good salesmen had to have something I still can't quite put my finger on, because it's kind of intangible. It's not education necessarily—hell, most of the guys at Fairchild MotorCars could barely read—but there was something about the ones who made money. They had a sixth sense of when a customer—they called them maggots at the dealership—was ready to buy. Some maggots would kick tires for half the day if you let them, and the salesmen that didn't have that intangible quality spent hours with them, thinking they were on the verge of a big deal, only to have the maggot bounce at the end. The experienced guys could tell when a maggot wasn't ready to buy, even when the maggot started negotiating. I've seen Delmo bounce a maggot in the middle of a deal, then close the next one fifteen minutes after shaking hands on the lot. He knew just where the opening was, and when to ask for the sale. And, as any good salesman will tell you, you gotta ask. Maggots can't make a decision. You gotta make it for them.

I closed twelve deals my second month, which was March, and it was the biggest paycheck I'd ever seen. In April, I had already closed ten deals, and it was only the middle of the month. If I matched that for the second half, I'd have been one happy camper. The $375 for the mirror wasn't going to hurt so bad after all, but I still didn't like it. Fuck Billy and his march with the band bullshit.

Chapter 4... Chita

Dealing with the business office was a pain in the ass. We had to go in there to check our vouchers, collect our mail, steal their coffee, you know, do all the things salesmen were supposed to do. It used to be that the stuff was distributed to our desks so that we could review our deals and see which ones washed out of F & I—that's finance and insurance—but too many of the dildo salesmen like Billy lost the damned papers, or spilled coffee on them, or did something equally stupid with them. So, right after I came on board, Max Holtzman announced that no longer would papers be allowed out of the business office, and they set up one single review desk back there. I guess that was okay, except for the fact that most of the business office people thought we, the salesmen, were scum, and, we, the salesmen, thought most of them were Nazis, and would have liked making lampshades out of our skins. I was at the review desk when Billy came up and took his stuff out of his cubbyhole, which I think had gum wrappers in it.

"How you doing so far this week?" he asked, making small talk. It was only Wednesday.

"I got one last night but the guy needs a cosigner."

"What'd you hold?"

Salesmen were always curious about other guys' deals. Holding meant how much profit was in a deal. Our commission was fifteen percent of that.

"Twenty-two hundred," I answered. That was a pretty good hold and it meant $330 bucks in my pocket—if the maggot got someone to sign with him. "How you doin' so far?"

Billy flipped through his vouchers. "I got one Monday night, and I got two deliveries today." Smoke curled from the cigarette dangling from his lip.

I calculated quickly. Three deliveries and it was only Wednesday. That probably meant a thousand or so in Billy's pocket, and he'd probably get at least two more by Saturday.

"What are you selling?" I asked curiously.

"Monte Carlos. They're hot."

I was content to sell the occasional Celebrity. I flipped through my papers again just to make it look as if I had a lot going on, when Chita came out of Holtzman's office. I never saw Billy's head move, or his eyes leave the stuff he was examining, but he must have caught her movements out of the corner of his eye.

"You snag a date with her yet?" he asked.

"No, but I'm getting close."

"Right. You've been saying that since you got on the floor." Little puffs of smoke accompanied his words. "You ain't never gonna to smell that thang."

Somehow, I didn't think Chita's thang smelled. I really didn't like talking about her that way, so I didn't say anything, hoping Billy would change the subject. It really wasn't that bad, though, and besides, it's how salesmen talked. Hell, I'd heard a lot worse. In any case, I went along when I saw that Billy expected me to say something else. Like I said, it's how the salesmen talked.

"No really," I said. "I think she's warming up to me. She'll be hot for my bod by the end of the month."

"Sure," Billy said as he crammed his stuff back into his cubbyhole. "You want some action, you oughtta get it on with Zena. Murphy took her out and said she sucked his dick until his head almost caved in." Having relayed that pertinent piece of information, Billy stole a cup of coffee and left the swinging half door flapping as he returned to the showroom.

Chita was in charge of the office, the cash part, that is. Holtzman was in charge of the whole shebang back there, but Chita pretty much handled the cash, the finance contracts, and other stuff that had to do with whatever it had to do with. I always liked it when Chita was working, not that she was any nicer than the other two trolls who did her job, but at least she was something to look at while you bit your fingernails hoping that your maggot's check was good for the down payment.

Chita, I found out, was short for Charristida. Charristida Sophia Teresa Espino. She hated it when you called her Charristida. "Too old-farty," she said. "Call me Chita." It could have been Cheetah because that's how she acted sometimes. By that, I mean she was temperamental as a cat: purring at you one minute, snarling and clawing at you the next. Still, I liked her, or at least I thought I would—if I ever got the chance. She was small, and curvy, and cute, with long dark hair, and great legs. She had it going on, all right, nice body if you checked it out real close, could have really showed it off, too, but being flashy wasn't her thing. She wouldn't give me the time of day.

I stole a cup of coffee and wandered back to the showroom. I was number five on the up list, and there wasn't a customer—excuse me, a maggot; that's how salesmen talked—anywhere in sight. Wednesday mornings could be slow sometimes. I parked myself at my desk and put my feet up. It wasn't professional, but that's how the cool salesmen sat while they were waiting for an up. My mind drifted back to Chita.

I remembered the first time I saw her. I was just a lowly doofus of a shop guy, and I was emptying an oil pan. Like I said, Chita wasn't the flashy type, but I paid attention when she paraded past me with her shiny black shoes, ring-curled hair, and frosted red lips. I got a whiff of her perfume, and I thought she smelled like lilacs, or heather, or something. Surely, I thought further, that's what an angel smelled like. Man she was hot, and she didn't even know I was alive. The oil pan slipped out of my hands while I was gawking at her, and it clanged to the floor. She turned quickly, looking to make sure I hadn't splashed any oil on her, and our eyes locked for a second. "Sorry," I said. She just said, "It's okay," and she went on her merry way while I stood there with oil all over me, looking like the scummy grease monkey that I was.

Now, however, I was in sales, and I figured for perhaps the tenth time, what the hell, I'd try again. I found an excuse to go back to the office. She was busy. She was always busy. I stood there until she looked up, and I tried to put on a friendly face.

"Yes?" she said half-heartedly.

"Could I check the papers on this deal? This commission voucher doesn't look right."

"You salesmen are all alike," she huffed. "Every deal is screwed up. Let me see it." She held her hand out impatiently, then went to a file cabinet and pulled out a folder. After flipping a few pages, also impatiently, she put two of them down in front of me.

"It's exactly what was on your worksheet," she said, pointing to the figures. "Held eight hundred. What's your voucher say?"

It wasn't going well. I asked myself, was it me, or could someone have peed in her corn flakes that morning? "Sorry," I said. "The voucher is correct. I thought I held more."

"You all do," she snapped condescendingly. "Salesmen: you're all alike." Pphhoooof. There went another swipe of cheetah claws.

"What's alike?" I asked, rather happy that she recognized the fact that I was becoming a rather cool, hip dude, salesman. I put on my driving shades, right there in front of her desk, just for the hell of it.

"Arrogant, obnoxious, and overbearing, is what alike is."

Gee, I didn't think that was very nice. "I'm not arrogant."

"Yes you are."

"Then I'm not obnoxious."

"You're getting there."

"I am not."

"Yes, you are."

"Then I'm not overbearing."

"Why, of course you are."

"How can you say that?"

"Because you keep pushing your point until you prove that you're right, that's how."

"Like, when?"

"Like, now."

"No I'm not."

"Let's see. You're standing there with your dumb glasses on, in the middle the office yet, trying to be oh-so-cool, and you'll probably stand there and argue until I give in and admit that you're not obnoxious. I'd say that was pretty arrogant and overbearing."

"Then you admit I'm not obnoxious."

"You're giving me a headache. You would have been better off staying in the shop instead of trying to be just another jerk salesman."

"How about dinner Saturday night?"

"Oh, now you've touched all the bases; first base: arrogant; second base: overbearing; third base: obnoxious; and, yes folks, home plate: pathetic. You've hit a home run, Madrid."

"Does that mean no?"

"I rather have a stomach cramp."

She got up and walked away. Yes, sir, she was coming around all right. I'd have her eating out of my hand by the end of the month. She remembered me from the shop? Cool.

Chapter 5... Gyros

At about 12:30 my stomach was growling, but I was up. If I left the showroom, my name would have gone to the bottom of the list, which meant I would have gone most of the day without an up, so I stayed. I was glad I did because a couple of old-lady maggots came in and I sold them a Cavalier. It wasn't a big deal, but it didn't take long, and it was delivered right away. That's called a spot delivery. I only held five hundred, but a deal was a deal, and I felt good about it. I left for lunch.

It was a beautiful day on Jamaica Avenue. There hadn't been any gunfire all day, and the weather was warm. Lots of girls from the 'hood were out struttin' their stuff, showing plenty of meat as they walked up and down the avenue in their halter tops and short shorts with their big butts sticking out. A lot of them had little kids with them, but that didn't stop the any of the dudes who hung out on the street from coming on to them as they passed.

"Hey, mama. How 'bout a little o' dis?" one of them said, holding his you-know-what. Street come-ons in Jamaica were an art onto themselves. Indeed, there was always symbolic meaning in them, like, "Say, baby, c'mown over here 'n' gimme some sugar. Yeah, das right—some o' dat brown sugar, baby. I betcha it sho' is sweet." Do you see the symbolism there? Then, there was the old standby, the old, but ever popular, "Mmm, mmmm, mmmmm!" That pretty much said it all for me.

Lunch was most often at The Pizza Palace. It was the kind of place you went to when you wanted to make sure your cholesterol level stayed nice and high. I don't know what kind of palace The Pizza Palace was before it served food, but there were no doors to the place. The front was just a big, iron rollup gate, like a huge garage door. They just yanked it open every morning, and began serving food. You could smell the place from a block away, day or night. There were ten or twelve tables inside, all of them small and wobbly, and if they were full you ate on the sidewalk.

Of course The Pizza Palace had pizza. It was that greasy, cheesy, New York style where the slice bent from the weight of the cheese, which was always so hot you burned the roof of your mouth if you weren't careful. They pumped it out of the ovens six pizzas at a time, and cut it up like samurai warriors for eighty-nine cents a slice. I stayed with the pizza most of the time, but if I had any money, I went with my favorite, which was a gyro.

There was always a roll of gyro meat cooking away at The Pizza Palace, and the guy cut it off in huge strips with a knife that had to be three feet long. Have you ever seen a roll of gyro meat? I've never seen an animal shaped like that, and I had absolutely no intention of ever asking what was in those rolls, but man, were they good. One gyro lasted all afternoon because you'd taste it until bedtime. It was heaven for $2.89.

I thought I'd splurge, seeing as I'd just put a deal over the curb. I ordered a gyro with everything, and went to get some napkins. It took a minute because the dispenser was empty, and I had to ask one of the Vietnamese clean-up boys, who didn't speak English, to get some more. When I returned to the counter, I was pleasantly surprised to see Chita taking delivery of some chicken souvlaki-on-a-stick.

"I've got that," I said pointing to her food as I handed the guy a ten. I'm sure that if I'd asked her if I could buy her lunch, she'd have said no, but I didn't give her a chance to protest. That's what salesmen did, you know.

"There you are being overbearing again," she said.

"You're welcome," I replied. I thought I detected a trace of a smile, although it was a very slight trace.

"There's an empty table in the back," I said, assuming she would sit with me, seeing as I'd paid for her food and all, and I led the way. That's the assumptive close. Good salesmen did that too. I thought I'd start the conversation on her terms. I swung my driving shades up over my forehead.

"I'm sorry about being arrogant, obnoxious, overbearing, and, what was that other thing? Oh yeah, pathetic. I've never been pathetic before." I smiled.

She flashed a half-smile, more like a half-snarl, and popped a chunk of chicken into her mouth. She was cold as ice, and she dropped her eyes as if doing so would make it seem like she was eating alone. I took a bite of my gyro. It was huge, and awkward, like the conversation. "I was really just trying to check on that voucher," I said, alluding to our earlier encounter again. She popped another piece of chicken into her mouth and chewed quickly. This time she responded.

"No you weren't," she said, very self-assured. This time her eyes rose steadily—ready, locked, and loaded, but they didn't fire.

"Yes I was."

"There you go again. You're going to argue until you get your way. All you salesmen do that."

"I take it you don't like salesmen."

"Not really." She wiggled another piece of chicken off the stick.

"Why?" I asked, wiping some gyro juice off my cheek. She eyed the gyro. I guess she couldn't help it, seeing as it was almost the size of a football and I was trying to stuff most of it into my mouth.

"I've already told you why." A quick sip of soda wet her lips, followed by another quick chunk of chicken.

"You shouldn't eat so fast," I said, again with a smile. "You'll get stomach cramps." This time her eyes lowered, and uncocked themselves. They no longer had the drop on me. I thought we'd reached a truce. The remnant of the earlier smile turned into more of one. It got about three-quarters of the way there.

"I mean, besides being arrogant, obnoxious, overbearing, and pathetic, what don't you like about salesmen?" I kept saying pathetic in a pathetic way.

"Isn't that enough?"

"I want to make sure I have the full picture."

"What's in those things?" she asked, pointing to the gyro with her chicken stick.

"I don't know, but they're really good. Ever had one?"

"No. I've always wondered what those big rolls of meat were back there."

"You mean you're... how old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"You mean you're twenty-four years old, and you've never tasted a gyro? Here, try some." I held the huge thing out toward her, making sure some of the gloppy sauce was right in front. She eyed it. "Go ahead, take a bite, before it bites you. Rrroofff." It was funny. She laughed, at last. She edged toward it, holding back her long brown curls, and took a delicate nibble. See, I told you I'd have her eating out of my hand by the end of the month, but that wasn't quite what I had in mind.

Chewing, and contemplating for a moment, she said, "It is good."

"I told you," I said triumphantly. I took another huge bite.

"Well?" I said, my mouth full of gyro meat.

"Well what?"

"Why don't you like salesmen, besides the fact that they're arrogant, overbearing, etcetera, etcetera?"

"Well, for one thing, they're all liars."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You all are."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

"Prove it," I said challengingly.

"Okay. Tell me why you want to go out with me."

I wasn't prepared for that, so I took another bite. It bought me some time. "Because I'd like to get to know you," I said. It sounded like a good answer.

"See, that's a lie right there."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, really."

"And what's the real reason then?"

"Because you'd like to get into my panties. That's why."

I wasn't prepared for that either, and it was the truth. Luckily, she asked me something before I had to respond.

"Why do you want to be a salesman?"

I hesitated. The little wench would probably see right through me if I lied. "Because I wanna make a lot of money," I said, which was the truth. "That, plus the fact that someday I'll be running this dealership."

She didn't say anything for a minute as she finished the last of her chicken. She had one of those spacey looks, as if she were digesting my answer along with her food. Jesus, she could be intimidating when she wanted to be.

"Well?" I asked. "Do you think that's the truth?"

"Partly. I think you also like driving around in all those cool cars and acting like some sort of slick-haired playboy. Funny, I didn't think you were the type. I liked it better when you were in the shop. At least there you weren't trying to be something you're not."

"My-oh-my, aren't we perceptive?" I said smartly. "You sound like my mother."

"Then your mother must be very perceptive too." She got up and flipped her napkin on the table. "But you're not. Back then I thought you were cute. Now you're just a salesman. Thanks for lunch."

I watched her shapely little body from behind as she made her way onto Jamaica Avenue. She sure was a saucy little shit.

Chapter 6... Cubbyholes

A couple of days passed, and I was banging them out left and right: the Cavalier on Wednesday, a Monte Carlo the next day, and bang, a Town Car that morning to some old, black-dude maggot who paid cash. I held twenty-two hundred on the Lincoln. That meant over three hundred bucks for me, and it was my biggest deal yet. I'd sold thirteen cars, and it was only the twenty-first of the month. If I kept the pace, I would earn the biggest paycheck I'd ever seen in my entire life. I was so excited I was making myself damp. Billy was leading, and I was second, one ahead of Delmo. We had a big chart in the lounge with little horses on it, all of them running for the finish line, which had the number 30 next to it. Thirty cars was a car a day. No one, not even Billy, had ever done a car a day before. Someone crossed out my name and wrote Flash In The Pan on my little horse. I'm sure it was meant as a put down, but I loved it. I thought: fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

I went into the business office and pretended to check my cubbyhole so that I could steal a cup of coffee. I figured if the business office didn't want the salesmen to steal coffee, they shouldn't have put the coffeepot so close to the cubbyholes. Sometimes, checking one's cubbyhole was quite upsetting. It held the bad news as well as the good news. Primarily, it was where your vouchers went. Vouchers were the word. They could have been carved on tablets like the Ten Commandments. A voucher was generated when a car went over the curb. It told you what the final hold was after everything was said and done, like after the maggot couldn't come up with all the money for the down payment, after the F & I department cut the deal to get the maggot financed, whatever. Vouchers were the good news, and they were small, just little slips of paper.

The bad news was much bigger. When a deal washed out because a maggot changed his mind, or couldn't get bought—getting bought means getting financed—the F & I people took all the papers such as your work sheet, the bill of sale, the finance contract, everything, and stuffed it all into your cubbyhole. It was probably because they didn't want all that dead shit on their desks, but lot of paper in your cubby was not good.

I kept my cubbyhole clean. I wanted to know right away if something flushed out. Some of the cubbyholes were so jammed with crap that I wondered how the salesmen knew what they had going. Every so often, Max Holtzman would ask people to clean out their cubbyholes, and when they didn't, he just scooped everything up and threw it all way. That always caused a lot of pissing and moaning among the salesmen, and Holtzman always told them to go fuck themselves.

I looked at my cubby. It was empty, so life was good. Sipping my coffee, I scanned the offices trying to spot Charristida Sophia Teresa Espino. I figured I'd check out what she was wearing, and maybe get a line on her mood. I wasn't about to give up on her yet, and I thought maybe I'd ask her to lunch again. Then, I thought, what the hell, why not a couple of drinks, maybe some dinner? I was making money, even though I didn't have it yet, and I had the feeling she might go for it. After all, whether she wanted to admit it or not, I wasn't just some air wrench jockey anymore.

She wasn't at her desk, which was one of three in the open area behind the partitioned counter. I looked further back, into the row of enclosed offices, which were the kind with glass walls part of the way up. That's where maggots went to discuss their applications if there was a problem with their credit. One of the offices belonged to Max Holtzman. He was in there with Chita, and he didn't look happy. Neither did she.

Holtzman pretty much ran the back end of the business, and officially he reported to Big Tony, but Big Tony pretty much stayed out of his way. That was understandable, though. Holtzman had been there a long time, twenty-something years, I was told. He was a small, wiry guy, with curly gray hair, Jewish obviously, and I knew he lived in Forest Hills. Holtzman's eyes were like black marbles, and he didn't say much about anything, usually. After all, he'd probably heard every sob story in the world about why a maggot couldn't come up with his down payment, or why a deal shouldn't wash out, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I guess after a while he got steeled to it all. Right then, however, behind the glass walls, Holtzman's face was redder than a Coke can, and he was waving his arms around like a turkey trying to get off the ground. Chita just sat with her head down for a while, but then she jumped up and went nose-to-nose with him, wagging a thin finger at him defiantly. I felt better in a way, guessing that maybe she was just snotty with everybody. Then, however, Holtzman raised a stiff left arm and pointed through the glass wall. I read his lips as he dismissed her. "Do it!" he said, and Chita stomped out of the office.

Now, I considered myself to be a pretty good judge of body language, and all—salesmen need to know that stuff—but I must've had a case of cranial-rectal inversion that morning because I thought right then was a good time to go up and chit-chat with Chita. Wrong!

"What?" she snapped without further exchange.

I thought I'd soften it up a little, you know, show some empathy—good salesmen did that too. "What was that all about?" I asked, nodding toward Holtzman's office.

"None of your business."

I wanted to say something else, but I realized that I was thinking with my pecker instead of my head, so I turned to steal another cup of coffee. That's when she resumed the nippy banter.

"Then again, maybe it is your business. These are your deals."

"My deals? What about my deals? Did Holtzman flush something on me?"

"No, he didn't."

"So what's the problem?"

"The problem, Ace Groover, is that you guys keep forcing me to break the law. That's the damned problem."

"Huh?"

"Like you don't know."

"I don't know. What are you talking about, break the law? What law?"

"I'm talking about the deal you made this morning."

"The Lincoln? Oh no, not the Lincoln. The old maggot didn't have the money, right? I knew it. I knew it was too easy. The guy was a lay-down."

"Not at all, Wonder Boy. He had the money all right, just like he said—in cash. That's the problem."

My heart settled, and mentally I picked up the three hundred bucks I had just flushed down my mental toilet, and put it back into my mental pocket. "So it's a good deal then, right?"

"Yeah, it's good."

"So what's the problem?" I asked again. I thought: am I stupid, or what?

"The problem is that the guy paid cash. All of it."

I remembered the old coot was pretty proud of that. Old folks were like that sometimes, as if somehow cash was worth more than a check. "Well, I know it's more work, but I'll help you count it if that's the problem."

"That's not the problem."

"Well, what then?" Jesus Christ! I exclaimed silently.

"The problem is that we're supposed to report all cash transactions over $10,000 to the IRS."

"So?"

"So, Holtzman is telling me to forget the reporting form—again—and it's my name on the finance papers. If we get caught, I'm the one who goes to jail."

"You're not going to jail," I scoffed, really having no idea if it was a serious offense, or not. "The IRS doesn't throw people in jail for forgetting to file a few forms, at least not...." I was about to say processing clerks, but I thought it would have sounded demeaning, and she didn't need any more pissing off. "Don't worry about it," I said, flipping it off.

"Easy for you to say. You're the one making all the money."

My heart fluttered at the fact that she recognized that little tidbit. Suddenly, my confidence was back. "That means I can afford lunch again. How about it? Gyros?" Then, I remembered my original thought. I straightened up, and ran a comb through my hair. Show some class, I told myself. "Better yet, how about something after work. C'mon, we'll have some fun." I backed off a step and put on my sincere face, expecting to get shot down again.

"Fun," she sighed. "I haven't had fun in a long time. I think I've forgotten what fun is."

An opening—there it was, narrow, but there. I slithered through. "Let's do it then. I know a place called Coco's, downtown. Like you said, I can afford it."

"I don't think so," she said without looking up from her desk. "Not today."

"When then?"

"I don't know. Sometime."

Sometime hung there like smog, and I left it there as I heard my name come over the PA and I had to go back to the showroom. I'd been careful lately, trying not to be arrogant, overbearing, obnoxious, and pathetic when I was around her, but I surmised that she was too upset to enjoy lunch anyway. So, I went alone, and determined that getting into her undies needed more dedication. Perseverance, I told myself, would pay off, and the crowbar which would pry open the door to the Promised Land was a dozen roses. I bought them with the last $20 bucks in my wallet, and asked if they could be delivered within the hour. They said sure, and I walked back with $1.63 left in my pocket. An hour and thirteen minutes later, I heard her voice over the PA system. Mister Madrid, please dial extension forty-two. She sounded pleased.

"Sweet," she said as soon as she picked up the phone.

"I thought you'd like them."

"Dinner?" She was referring to the card.

"If you like."

"I don't know."

"Have I done something to tick you off?"

"Not lately."

"Well then, what, for Christ's sake?" It was bold, but, no balls, no glory.

"It's just that there's a lot of talk going around the dealership that you and I, you know...."

"No, I don't know. What?"

"Did it."

"Did it? Did what?"

"Had sex, stupid."

"Really? The thought never crossed my mind."

"Yeah, right. Is that why you've been bragging that we played pinwheel?"

Delmo, that bastard; it was one of his favorite sayings. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said defensively. I wished she could have seen the honesty in my face. Did the guys really think I was hammering Chita? Cool.

"Have you been saying that? I've had every salesman in the place coming on to me since we had lunch, and every one of them wants to play pinwheel. I know what it means, you know. I thought for a stupid minute that I was wrong, but you're like all the rest."

"It's Delmo! Delmo's been spreading the rumor."

"The rumor? Then you have heard it."

"No, I haven't, but I know it was Delmo."

"Did you tell Delmo that we... did it?"

"Of course not. I told him we had lunch, that's all. Listen, don't worry about Delmo. He's all smoke." I was losing the battle quickly.

"Where there's smoke, there's usually fire."

"I can prove it to you," I said, my voice sounding kind of desperate. "Tell you what... let's have dinner. If I can't convince you I'm innocent about that stupid rumor, I promise I'll never bother you again." That certainly didn't sound arrogant, overbearing, and obnoxious, I thought, just pathetic—but it worked.

Hesitating, "That sounds fair enough."

"Cool. Right after work?"

"Fine."

Somehow I knew she'd go for it. "You get off at six?"

"Yes."

"See you then." I made a mental note to be off the up list by 5:30. Life was better than good. I put on my driving shades and prepared to go into my showroom strut, when I stopped. "Deals," I said quickly before I put the phone down. "You said deals before. Is there a problem with another one of my deals?"

"Is it true that someone shot at you during a test drive and put a bullet right through the mirror on a brand-new Jag? It's all over the dealership."

"No big thing," I said, like a man.

"Well, the $375 bucks for the mirror is coming out of your next commission check."

"That only means I'll have to sell another car," I said. And I did.

Chapter 7... Coco's

Sitting there on the F train, I thought how cheesy it must have seemed taking the subway all the way into Manhattan. I used the excuse with Chita that it was faster than taking a cab at that time of day, when, in truth, I didn't want to spend the money. I'd already pulled the last hundred bucks out of my checking account, and my next draw check wasn't coming until the following Friday, so my wallet was feeling a little lonely. She didn't seem to mind, though, and the walk to the Parsons Boulevard stop was actually kind of pleasant. We walked apart but close together, and her high heels clicked along while we made small talk. She talked about work mostly, but mentioned that she'd gone to The Pizza Palace again and tried a gyro on her own. She said she finished half of it and took the rest home for dinner, but that she didn't need to because she was still tasting it at bedtime.

"See. I told you it stays with you," I said, trying to not be obnoxious or overbearing.

"I stunk up the whole bus with that gyro," she said, referring to her ride to Corona where she lived with her folks and younger sister.

We talked casually the whole way, while I tried to make her the main topic of conversation. That's one of the basic rules of salesmanship: get the customers interested in the product—which, in this case, was me—and then get them to talk about themselves. That way, sometime during the conversation, while they're babbling about something totally unimportant, they can visualize themselves with said product. That's what's called establishing mental ownership, and it worked like a charm. She rattled on about her folks, and her nursing program at York College, and how someday she was going to kiss the dealership goodbye. I imagined her curvy little body in one of those immaculate nurse's uniforms, with her shiny brown hair dangling down, and her gorgeous legs wrapped in tight white hose—talk about hot. When the time was right, I talked about some other crap where I put myself in her world, and I think it worked—her taking mental ownership of me, I mean—and she didn't get all snotty like I knew she could be. We sat at the end of the subway car and she talked all the way into the city. God, I was good. I figured I'd impress her later, and take a cab back to Queens.

Coco's was on 7th Avenue and 35th Street, and it was crowded enough to be busy, but not too busy. It was one of those trendy places that served sandwiches named after mayors—you know, the Koch, the La Guardia, the Walker, and others. I'd been there a few times with Billy, but I'd never eaten anything because we just went to get bombed and look at chicks, although Billy had been known to pick up a hooker now and then. Sometimes he got so shitfaced that he was still half-drunk the next morning at the Saturday morning meeting. I got to know the bartender there. His name was Rubin, and he made the stiffest drinks in New York.

"Hiya, Rubin," I said, slipping off my driving shades. Coco's was dark inside.

"Hey there, aah... Carmen, isn't it?" I'm sure Chita was impressed. "The usual?" he asked.

"Sure thing." While Rubin made my three-quarters of a glass of bourbon with a splash of water, I asked Chita what she wanted. "Something with an umbrella in it?"

She gave me a get real look, and said, "Rum and Coke with lime," and then she excused herself to freshen up.

"How do you want her drink?" Rubin asked knowingly.

"Like you normally make them," I replied, winking a wry wink.

"Hot little number," he noted a few moments later as he put up her drink. Clearly, I didn't have to draw him a picture.

Chita returned, hair fresh, lips glossed, and she propped a black pump on the crossbar of her stool, crossing her legs so that her skirt rose to thigh-high range. She smelled great, and she was sauced by the time she finished her drink. I convinced her we should get something to eat.

I was thinking about pouring the coal to her the whole time, of course, but I was careful to be on my best behavior. I saw the occasional mistrusting glance, but I was wearing her down. She warmed up to me after a while, and we actually had a few laughs. Her eyes sparkled and danced when she laughed, but she retreated when the food came, not letting herself belly-flop into outright fun. The food was delicious, but it should have been for what it cost. Finally, half a prime rib into the meal, I figured I might as well find out what was what.

"Is there something you don't like about me, besides the fact that I'm a salesman?" I found out that with this chick the direct route was best.

"No, that's just about it."

I started to get a smoldering little itch under my skin, and it was annoying. "That's getting old," I said testily.

"You asked," she said, casually popping a piece of filet mignon into her mouth.

"You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"Why bother?"

"Being a salesman doesn't mean I'm some sort of animal, you know."

"Close."

Damn, she could be surly. There I was, spending what she probably took home in a week on her, and that was the thanks I got? A less understanding guy would have dumped her ass and let her fend for herself for the rest of the night, but that would have made her point. I poured myself a glass from the $18.50 bottle of Cabernet something, and told myself to be cool. I kept my voice and my gaze even, trying not to look down the opening of her white silk blouse.

"What about tonight?" I asked. "What am I doing tonight that's so bad?"

"Actually, you're being a perfect gentleman. And, you're going out of your way to do it, I'd say."

"Aren't you the perceptive one?" I downed the glass of wine.

"Yes, I am," she answered, leaning back smugly and stretching her blouse tightly against the lace underneath. She followed my eyes with hers, and continued. "You're struggling with whether to forget about me, or pursue me, but you don't know which way to go just yet."

Bang, home run, I thought, ringing my glass with my finger. "Do you have a preference?"

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, and looked directly into my soul. "I'm not sure yet."

"What's preventing you from being able to make up your mind?" I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"I've already told you a hundred times."

"And I've told you, I'm not like the other guys. Haven't I proven that yet?"

"You really don't see it, do you? Pretty soon you'll be like all the rest."

"Which is? Refresh my memory."

"Greedy, selfish, and dishonest. They're dragging you into their little clique, little by little. You won't go if you have any sense, but I'm not sure you're that smart."

She paused, but I didn't say anything.

"I think their approval is very important to you, for some reason. I'd hate to see you get sucked in," she added, punctuating the conversation by tossing her napkin on the table. "I have to go to the ladies' room."

I watched her walk away, as did several other guys when she passed by. I wondered if she was right. When she came back, all neat, and tucked, and combed, I asked, "What makes you so smart?"

"As long as you're spending money," she said, not answering my question, "how about dessert?"

We had dessert, after which we took a cab all the way to Queens. We didn't talk much on the way there. She gave me lukewarm look as she got out, and all she said was, "Thanks, Carmen. See you at work." I wondered if I'd convinced her that I was different from the others. They wouldn't have taken all that crap about being selfish and dishonest, and they certainly wouldn't have put a couple of hundred bucks on their charge card for her without getting something in return, if you catch my drift. I didn't understand why she wasn't impressed. It cost me twenty bucks for the cab, but I think it was worth it.

Chapter 8... The Fairchilds

My place, like I told you, was in Elmhurst, just up the street from LeFrak City, and while it wasn't the worst neighborhood in Queens, it wasn't the best either. It was sandwiched between Jackson Heights, where they picked up the Panamanian drug dealers' dead bodies off the streets every morning, and Forest Hills, where little white girls ran around in wool sweaters and plaid skirts. Junction Boulevard was the dividing line in the neighborhood, and most of the residents were content to let the street dealers ply their trade as long as they confined it to the east side of Junction Boulevard around the LeFrak City towers, which were part of Corona. That made a lot Elmhurst residents happy who didn't want Elmhurst to be associated with LeFrak City, but the border between the neighborhoods was a fine line. There was definitely turf in Elmhurst.

I got an early start that Saturday morning, and I was out and about by 7:30. Dodging a couple of red-eyed smelly people outside the Six Brothers deli, I got my coffee-to-go, and made my way to the subway for the ride into Jamaica. The hot coffee felt great going down, and it cleared away the last few cobwebs and the little alcohol haze behind my eyes. I got a copy of the Daily News for the train ride, but I never really saw the words because I was thinking about my evening with Chita the whole way to Jamaica. I'd listened to her conversation the night before much the same way I was reading the paper: the words were there, and a few of them made it into my brain, but, for the most part, I was thinking about something else. In Chita's case, it was how she'd look in a lacy black teddy. I did remember a few tidbits about Holtzman and the $10K reporting forms, however, and how upset she was about participating in that kind of dishonesty. I also remembered asking her why she didn't go to Big Tony about it. Clackety-clack went the F train as it rocked along.

"Who do you think is telling Holtzman to do it?" she'd said. Indeed, I probably could have put two and two together, but I was too busy trying to get her drunk to think that hard. All in all, though, I'd say it was a pretty successful night, and I thought we hit it off okay. I got off the train feeling pretty proud of myself.

There was a lot of garbage on Jamaica Avenue that morning, which helped me hurry along as I didn't want to linger in any particular smell zone. I was fifteen minutes early for the weekly sales meeting, and I felt good knowing that some other poor sucker was going to buy me breakfast. You see, the latecomers to the Saturday morning meeting had to buy breakfast for the whole sales crew. For the guys who made money, buying breakfast was just a little running insult. For me, it would have been my food money for the next couple of weeks. I always made sure I was on time, even though it was usually by the skin of my teeth.

The lights were turned off inside the showroom, and there wasn't much light coming through the plate glass windows since it was kind of dreary outside. The new car smell was strong in the still air, and as I looked among the shaded cars, I spotted Delmo leaning up against a shiny new Caprice. Delmo was a family man, I'd heard. He had mouths to feed—six of them—and as a consequence he didn't screw around when it came to the job. At least it seemed that way to me. He always said he needed whatever money he made, and he made a good bit of it. His real name was Delvin Maurice Kennedy, and the combination of his first and middle names is how he got to be called Delmo, which was actually fairly normal as opposed to having one of those ghetto names that sounded like a prescription drug like Lynarius, or Zeron, or something. I stole a cup of coffee, set it down on the trunk lid of the Caprice, and read my Daily News while Delmo read the New York Post. We waited together in silence while the other salesmen rushed across the shiny showroom floor like scrambling chipmunks. Billy Gatton made it in at 9:01, and leaned his unshaven self next to us. He looked like shit.

"Well?" he asked. He was talking to me.

"Well what?"

"Did you fuck 'er?"

"Jesus, Billy. No, I didn't fuck her."

Delmo relaxed his paper and looked at his watch. The meeting was going to start late evidently.

I looked at my watch too. The meeting was never late.

"Fuck who?" Delmo asked as he flipped another page.

"Chita," Billy answered for me.

"You went out with Chita?" said Delmo. "I could make a pinwheel out of that little thing—just stick her on and spin."

I needed to change the subject. "Why is the meeting starting late?" I looked up at the tower. "Where's Big Tony?"

"In the back," Delmo replied without looking at me.

"With Holtzman?"

"With the Queen Mother."

"Who's the Queen Mother?"

"Mrs. Fairchild," Delmo answered impatiently. Evidently I was reaching my limit of questions.

"Oh," I said, and I looked at my watch again. It was ten after nine, and all the other salesmen were buzzing like bees by this time, happy that no one had to buy breakfast.

Billy took the opportunity to steal a cup of coffee. Coming back and bending the side mirror on the Caprice to fix his tie, he asked, "But you're gonna try and fuck her, right? I'll betcha she's a little tiger in the sack."

Okay, it was salesmen's talk again, but I wasn't too crazy about it right then. "Yeah, I'm gonna fuck her," I said, but the words didn't taste right coming out of my mouth. Again, I needed to get away from Billy's preoccupation with whether or not I'd banged Chita.

"Did you guys know Holtzman is playing games with the IRS?" I asked, hoping Billy and Delmo would jump on that juicy piece of gossip. Billy just kept tying his tie, and Delmo just grunted.

"There's lots of shit happening at this dealership," said Delmo, flipping another page of his newspaper and acting like what I'd said was no big deal.

"Like what?"

"All kinds of shit," Billy repeated, scrunching his face in the mirror.

Delmo looked up from his paper. "How long you been in sales, kid?"

"Three months."

"You'll find out soon enough."

There was noise on the tower. I looked at my watch: 9:30. Big Tony was making his way up the six steps.

"There goes the Queen Mother," said Billy. "Something's up."

From the name, I expected to see something out of a convent, but that was hardly the case. The Queen Mother was Mrs. Shannon Fairchild, who was making her way up the six steps right behind Big Tony. Remember when I told you about this rich banker dude from the city that bought the dealership way back when? Well, the rich banker dude died, and his wife became the rich banker dudess. I'd heard the name before, but I'd never seen her, and for a second, I thought I was actually looking at royalty—with dyed, pale blonde hair, wrapped up like those turbans the cab drivers wear. She would have made the perfect spokesperson for a brand of white bread that had a very thin crust. The Queen Mother took a seat behind Big Tony's desk, and held her chin high as if someone was painting her portrait. There was an audible gasp from a couple of salesmen who couldn't believe someone actually sat in Big Tony's chair. Some stringy-haired blonde bitch in bicycle pants climbed up to the tower after the Queen Mother sat down, slumping into one of the chairs in front of the desk. Big Tony turned to us schmucks on the sales floor, and I swear if he had a baton he would have tapped it. He didn't look happy.

"Everybody up," he yelled.

All the guys put down their coffees and their newspapers, and ambled up to the base of the tower. They all stood amid their own morning breath and cologne, their faces turned up expectantly.

"Not all of you may know Mrs. Fairchild," Big Tony said as eloquently as he could, given the fact that his face looked like hard cement, "and I'll say for all of us that we are honored to have her presence at our weekly sales meeting." Big Tony clapped his hands softly, and the rest of us did likewise. The Queen Mother nodded, and then reset her square chin to its proper height. Big Tony wiped his forehead.

"I'd like to take this opportunity to make an announcement," he continued.

To me, it looked like he was breathing heavy.

"Beginning Monday, we will be pleased to have Miss Patty Fairchild working with us here at the dealership."

He made a sweeping motion toward the skinny chick in the bicycle pants, and I thought I heard the starch in his shirt crackling.

"As you may know, Miss Fairchild is a recent graduate of Vassar College, and I'm sure she will make a fine addition to our staff."

I thought: now why the hell would I know she went to Vassar? I didn't even know where Vassar was. Big Tony looked like he was going to gag.

"As what?" Delmo called out as if he had a right to know.

Big Tony looked down, and I thought lightning bolts were going to flash from his eyes. "As my assistant," he bellowed. "She's going to be the new sales manager."

I looked at Billy, who looked at Delmo, then everyone looked at each other.

"This should be fucking interesting," said Delmo.

Chapter 9... Just Making Money

It was Friday the 28th, and, counting that day, there were just two more selling days left in the month, just two more days to hit twenty cars. I was tied with Billy at eighteen, and I was hot, so hot I was cool, so cool the heat came off me in little waves like you see on a hot road. Everyone knew it, too. All of a sudden, people who'd never even acknowledged that I was alive were talking to me: people like Earl, the service department manager, people like Myrna Johnson, the leasing agent, people like Holtzman, who actually said good morning to me on Thursday when I wasn't even looking at him. The $375 bucks for the mirror was out of my mind, no longer a worry. It was chump change. I went out and bought myself a new suit, an olive one like the stockbrokers wear, in that fabric that never got wrinkled—gabardine, I think it was called. The clothing salesman was a lousy salesman. I just put it on my charge card.

Even Big Tony said, "Nice going kid," as he signed off on my last deal. Normally, Big Tony gave out praise about as often as I got laid—which was just about never—but those three words that he muttered over a cup of espresso felt almost as good. I didn't make any big deals, no Jags, no Corvettes, and only that one Lincoln that I told you about earlier, but there were a lot of regular deals, and Big Tony noticed. My little horse, now permanently named Flash In The Pan because I'd blacked out Madrid in heavy black marker, was out in front, and people were messing with it every day. I loved it.

Speaking of Big Tony, it was interesting to watch his reactions with Patty Fairchild hanging around him day and night—well, days anyway, and those were partial days at that. She'd been there almost a week, and hadn't worked a night yet. Not only that, in the mornings she didn't get in till about 10:30 or so, depending on what time she got out of her aerobics class at the club. I know she called it that because I'd heard Big Tony joking about it. I happened to be standing next to the tower checking out a new Jaguar Vanden Plas that had just been brought out, and I heard a phone ring up there. Of course, she hadn't arrived yet, so Big Tony picked up the phone and told the other party that Patty's bouncy-bouncy class at the club probably wasn't over yet. Big Tony said the club in a squeaky little cartoon voice, and I think he was trying to be funny, acting like the whole situation wasn't bothering him.

Patty always tooled into the lot when everyone else was starting to think about lunch, and she'd park her canary yellow Corvette in the first available space, as opposed to the designated area in the back where everyone else parked. Most days, she wore a t-shirt and jeans—the kind of jeans that had French names on the back pocket, and were always immaculately pressed—her hair still wet from her aerobics class. She'd drag her ass up to the tower, and spend the next hour or so smelling up the place with shampoo smell, getting herself coffee, and making phone calls. I had no idea one person could know so many people. She sat up there making arrangements, working out plans, and doing whatever people in her world did after an aerobics class.

"Who do you think she's talking to?" I asked Billy.

"Beats me," he answered. "People like her have schedules. They even write shit down in little books so they don't forget."

"Do you notice how she ignores everybody? Kind of makes you feel like some sort of freakin' bug or something, don't it?"

Billy looked up at her, and she looked down her little ski-nose at him, then she turned away so that there was no chance that we'd hear what she was saying. "We are definitely beneath her," he said sarcastically.

"She spends all her time in the tower like she owns it," I said.

"That's fine with me," Billy responded. "As long as she doesn't get in the middle of my deals, I don't care if she screws the Pope up there."

Big Tony had told everyone she'd be spending time with us on the floor as well as in other departments, so she could learn the business from the ground up. As of yet, she hadn't spent more than ten seconds off the tower.

"You'd think Big Tony would go off like a rocket with her spending every second of her time up there with him," I said.

"Big Tony's cool," said Billy. "He knows which side his bread is buttered on. He'll pay just enough attention to her to make the Queen Mother happy."

Indeed, Big Tony seemed earnest enough. I don't know what he said when they were huddled together behind his desk, but he seemed polite, although the huddling sessions didn't last long. When they were over, Big Tony would put on his expensive jacket and go back to the business office to screw off with Holtzman, while Patty would traipse out to her Corvette, gun the engine, and disappear down Jamaica Avenue. What a sight: the whitest chick in New York City in a canary yellow Corvette, blasting down the heart of Jamaica Queens. The Puerto Rican lot boys loved her. They washed her car every day.

"Did see the new receptionist Holtzman hired?" Billy asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah. Hot, or what?" As far as us salesmen were concerned, the only qualifications for the receptionist's job were that she be able to work the paging system, and have nice hooters. Holtzman did a superb job with this latest hire, having brought in a nice, light-skinned black chick who had those bouncers—you know, heavy, pointy ones, the kind where no matter how she tried to tie them down they always bounced when she walked. It was like they had a life of their own.

"I lost five bucks to Delmo playing Guess Her Weight," said Billy.

That was the game where if she agreed to sit on your face, you had to guess how much she weighed. I don't know if anyone thought that would actually happen, but we always pretended like it would.

"She said she weighed a hundred and eleven," Billy went on. "Forty of it has to be in those knockers."

"Did she have any clue when you asked her how much she weighed?"

"None, but I think she has no clue about a lot of things."

"What's her name again?"

"Tanisha, I think," said Billy.

Chapter 10... Last Day of the Month

Delmo and I were doing a repeat performance of the previous Saturday, leaning next to each other on a spotless, new, purple Lincoln Mark VII with dual exhausts.

I said to Delmo, "I can't believe the Saturday meeting is going to start late two weeks in a row. Has this ever happened before?"

"Not that I can remember," said Delmo.

Billy was sitting at his desk on salesmen's row with his feet up, digesting a greasy donut and pouring over a racing form. He looked pretty sober, and he wasn't sniffling like he did sometimes on Saturday mornings. The rest of the guys were milling about, drinking coffee and carrying on. I remember that it was cold and rainy outside, and it smelled like wet wool inside the showroom.

Big Tony's voice blasted over the PA system. "Hey, you two assholes on the Lincoln! Get off that car, or the price of the new paint job is coming out of your fucking pay!"

"Oh-oh," said Delmo as he moved away from the car. "The shit's flying high this morning."

I looked up at the tower as Big Tony was putting down the phone. He pointed a huge finger at me and made a violent wave that I could have interpreted as more than just get off the car.

"Man," I said. "He looks pissed as hell. What are we waiting on?" It was twenty after nine.

Delmo pointed through the huge showroom windows into the raw mist outside. "I think we're waiting for Little Miss Muffet. I think that's her now."

Everyone focused on the scene in front of us. "What kind of car is that?" I asked amid the murmur of smart-ass remarks.

Delmo replied, "That's a Ferrari. Eighty-five grand."

Patty Fairchild hopped out of the passenger side holding a newspaper over her head, and ran around the car to plant a kiss on the guy who was driving. He shoved a canvas bag through the window, and he didn't look happy either, like Big Tony.

"You think he's screwing her for the money?" Nugent asked. Nugent was one of the other salesmen.

"I'd screw her for the money," Billy said as he looked back at his racing form.

"Shit," Delmo spat out. "You'd screw a pig with arthritis for five bucks."

Everyone chuckled, me included, because, well, basically, it was true. Patty ran through the mist into the showroom, looking as if she'd just climbed out of the sack. She didn't look happy either. Some morning, I thought: no one looked happy. There were a couple of leftover giggles in the air from Delmo's pig dig, and Patty must have thought they were meant for her as she walked past the lineup of salesmen, each of whom was eyeballing her. She eyeballed two of them back.

"Good morning," they said simultaneously, but not quite politely as they caught her cold glare.

"Up yours," she growled as she shook the wet newspaper and splashed inky water on their shirts. Now they were pissed too.

She climbed the tower and stood there while Big Tony hoisted his huge form from behind his desk. I couldn't quite make out what he said to her, but his face looked like a tomato with eyes.

"It couldn't be helped," Patty said quite clearly. "Just start the goddamned meeting! I'll be out in a minute." She hauled off down the tower steps with her bag, leaving Big Tony with steam coming out of his ears so that now he looked like a stewed tomato. He looked down, trembling with anger. No one dared to say a word. I moved slightly, out of the line of fire, as it were.

"Meeting's over!" he hollered. "If you assholes know what's good for you, you'll sell some fuckin' cars today." We all slinked off.

A few minutes later, Patty came back—in a dress. We'd never seen her in a dress before, with her hair all combed up, and she looked, well, decent. I'd say pretty nice even. By that time, we'd all assumed our positions on salesmen's row, made out the up list, and had done all the stuff salesmen were supposed to do to get ready to sell like refill our coffee cups and make sure our flies were zipped up. Patty's voice rang out clearly. Even the cars looked like they were listening.

"You did what?" she yelled belligerently. "I told you, it couldn't be helped!"

Big Tony didn't take that kind of crap, ever. "Nine o'clock!" he bellowed, smashing a thick finger into his watch. "The goddamned meeting starts at nine o'clock!"

"We need to talk," she spat back, seething.

"You're goddamned right we do!" Big Tony's huge arm was pointing to the back offices, and even from way back we heard a door slamming. We took bets on how bloody she'd be when she came out.

As it turned out, we didn't need much of a sales meeting that morning. Hardly anyone came onto the lot because the weather just sucked, and we spent most of the day watching the new receptionist prance back and forth. I only got two ups by three o'clock, and I think one of them was trying to figure out how difficult it would have been to steal the car.

"Check it out," Delmo said at about 3:10.

The Ferrari pulled up. The guy got out and splashed through the puddles into the showroom. He was wearing leather pants. He was barely through the door when Patty buzzed by and gave him a little love hug.

"He's definitely banging her for the money," said Delmo. "Either that, or she's banging him for his. Hard to tell."

They disappeared into the Ferrari, and the Ferrari disappeared down Jamaica Avenue.

I tried to change the subject. We'd been talking about it all day, and I was getting sick of it. "Speaking of money," I said, "it sure would be nice if I could sell a car today." I had visions of my little horse being out in front by the end of the day, and it was the last selling day of the month. "I need to make a sale—just one more deal."

Delmo looked up at the sky, which was getting grayer, and grayer. "Doesn't look like it today, hotshot. The lot is empty. Who's up next?"

"I dunno," I said. "Lost track."

Delmo went up and checked the list. "I think you're up. Billy's name is on top, but he's gone. Another half hour and I'm outta here myself."

I thought about catching a ride with Delmo if he left early, seeing as it would be a nasty walk to the subway, but I didn't get the chance. Twenty minutes later, just as Delmo was getting ready to split, he pointed to a black Jag with tinted windows as it came sniffing onto the lot with vapor puffing out both exhausts.

"Well, well, well," said Delmo. "Looks like it's not gonna be such a wasted day after all. Not for you at least."

"What'dya mean?" I asked innocently. A window peeled down on the Jag, revealing the face of some black dude in a big hat.

"That's Tommy Lee Lawes."

"So what?"

"Are you still next on the up list?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you're about to make some commission money, stud. That's The Lawman, and he's about to put you over the top."

Delmo sounded like he knew what he was talking about, and my heart started pounding. I watched Tommy Lee Lawes, The Lawman, open the passenger side door for Lawanda Hoopes—that was his woman—and I heard my name grind over the PA as they walked through the gray mist toward the showroom. There was no need to page me, however. I was already at the front desk by the time they came through the door.

Chapter 11... Captain Crunch

It stayed cold and rainy in New York City, and it was one of those mornings meant for sleeping. I probably would have stayed in the sack all day if it weren't for the fact that the pressure my bladder was cruising toward the explode mark. Once up, I figured I might was well get going, even though I had nowhere to go. I staggered into the kitchen—kitchen, hah! It was a hallway with a stove and a refrigerator in it—where I cleaned up some cockroach crumbs from one of Rudolph's midnight snacks. Rudolph was my cat, and I could tell when he been hunting because he left pieces of cockroach legs lying around like hairy toothpicks.

Pets weren't allowed in the building, and frankly, if I'd gotten caught I probably would've gotten rid of that dumb cat, depending on my mood. He was a pain in the ass, except for the fact that he stalked those huge, water bug cockroach things, and ate them. My apartment smelled like a litter box half the time, but that was better than having to deal with those disgusting creatures. Besides, he was something to come home to.

I made some coffee, and flipped on the stereo, tuning in some soft jazz. It was soothing, especially when I had a hangover, which I didn't have, although I should have. I should have celebrated the night before, seeing as I'd made a thousand bucks, and I would have, except that I didn't have any money. The thousand was coming, it was on its way, but it was taking the local instead of the express, and it wouldn't arrive until my commission check came—in June. The thousand was from the deals I'd made with Tommy Lee Lawes. He bought two cars, both of them Town Cars—a red one and a white one—and they were the easiest deals I'd made since I'd gotten into sales. But, he wasn't taking delivery of them until Monday, which was May 1st, and May commissions were paid in June. As I checked a coffee cup to make sure there were no roaches inside, I told myself it was okay, though. I'd have enough from the May commission check, which would arrive in five more days, to tide me over until June.

"Which one you want, baby?" Tommy had said to Lawanda once I had them focused in on a Town Car. It didn't take much focusing, and, actually, he'd focused me. When he said, "We wants to buy one o' them Lincolns, boy," I took the hint.

"I can'ts decide sugar," said Lawanda. "They's both real nice."

I think Lawanda was the blackest person I'd ever seen in my entire life.

"Well, sheeeeit," said Tommy Lee, who I think was the second blackest person I'd ever seen. "We'll jus' take 'em both, then."

My heart was pounding so hard that I felt my Adam's apple hopping up and down. "We haven't even settled on a price yet," I said.

Tommy Lee looked at me like the rookie that I was. "You jus' take the papers to Big Tony, boy. He'll fix us up."

I looked up at the tower. Big Tony was glaring back. I went up there.

"What's he buying?" Big Tony asked.

"Town Cars."

"Town Cars, as in plural?"

"He's buying two of them." Nervously, I held out my work sheets. "These are the stock numbers."

"This is your lucky day, Madrid." Big Tony took a big marker and wrote down the prices in big numbers, circling them. He handed them back without even looking at me. I had no idea what was going on. I carried the worksheets back to my desk, and set them down in front of Tommy Lee and Lawanda without saying a word.

"That's fine, boy. I'll send someone with the money on Monday."

"How will you be paying?" I asked nervously.

Tommy Lee laughed like hell, and Lawanda shook her head, her huge, dangling earrings tapping against her cheeks as she did.

"Like I always do, boy. Cash money."

I nearly choked. That was almost $42,000 bucks.

"You jus' make sure them cars is ready. You understand?"

"No problem," I said as confidently as I could.

Tommy Lee got up to leave. "Just two things," he added.

"Anything you want."

"Puts the cars in these names." He handed me a piece of paper with two names and addresses on them. "They's gifts."

"What's the second thing," I asked, shoving the names into my folder.

"Jus' make sure there's no reporting forms for the cash, okay boy? As usual."

I stammered something in return, having no idea how I would arrange that.

"You jus' go see Big Tony," Tommy Lee said as he left. "He'll take care of it."

Thinking further about that sale while I watered my ferns, I recalled what Chita had said about the $10K reporting forms. Then, I wondered how I was going to spend a rainy Sunday in Queens with no money. I petted Rudolph as I examined my checkbook. I shouldn't have done that because it just reminded me that the rent was due, and I was already a month behind. Well, it would just have to wait. I poured some cereal and the last of the milk into a bowl, and crunched a mouthful of the stale stuff, vowing I'd never be that close to being flat broke again. The cereal was really crunchy, and I hoped there weren't any cockroach legs mixed in with the Captain Crunch. I needed a better place.

Chapter 12... Back In The Soup

After our evening at Coco's, Chita went back to treating me pretty much the way she'd always treated me, and I got the impression that I was in observation status. I felt like a goldfish. That's not to say that I didn't sense some warmth from her occasionally, but it came in little spurts, like the warmth one gets from a cigarette lighter. I tried to dispel any new rumors about us because, like an idiot, I'd made the mistake of blabbing about our date.

Doing his best bump-and-grind, one of the other salesmen named Lemuel Milljoy came up, and asked, "Hey kid, did y'all do the horizontal Mambo?"

Now, it's a well-known fact that salesmen aren't a delicate bunch, and while most of them talked pretty gross, Lemuel was the grossest, grosser even than Billy. I'd never told Lemuel about the date, basically because I thought he was a jerk, but somehow he got wind of it.

"She blew me off," I said quickly, hoping to cut off any further discussion. I realized immediately that wasn't the best choice of words.

"Did she swallow?"

I should have known. "Lemuel," I said bitterly, "you are a jackass."

Lemuel snorted obnoxiously as he turned down salesmen's row. "Hey, Delmo, Madrid says he sprayed some nasty whip down—"

I grabbed Lemuel by the arm and turned him around violently, putting my nose an inch from his. "Listen Lemuel, it didn't happen, got it? And I don't wanna hear that shit flying around the dealership. Now, just shut the hell up about it, okay?" I jammed my finger into his chest. I meant business.

Holding up his hands, Lemuel said, "Hey, okay Madrid," and backed off. He turned, and must have made some kind of gesture because the other salesmen busted out as he passed. I was tempted to go over and kick him in the crotch. So much for another date with Chita, I thought, not that another date was going to happen any time soon, seeing as I was broke again.

I finally got my commission check for May, and the gross amount was exactly what I'd calculated. But, after federal taxes, state taxes, local taxes, and that fucking FICA, I'd lost over a third of it. On top of that, my two draw checks were deducted, plus the $375 for the shot-up mirror was taken out, plus I'd forgotten that I qualified for the medical plan that month, so the premium for that was deducted. All in all, I was left with less than $1,200 take home, and $900 of that went for two months' rent. I don't even wanna talk about what I owed on my charge card. After paying that, plus the bills, which I was also backed up on, and buying some groceries, the whole check was gone, and I was living on draw checks again. Something was just un-American about it all, or, maybe, it was the American way. Us poor schmucks took it up the wahzoo, while the Patty Fairchilds of the world jammed it up there. I wondered what Patty Fairchild's take home pay looked like. I needed some money. I thought I'd borrow some from Billy on the odd chance that he hadn't pissed his paycheck down the drain too.

"Hey Billy. Can you spot me fifty until my draw check on Monday?"

Billy was agreeable enough. "Sure kid. You broke already?"

"I can't believe it," I said, shaking my head. "It's gone." I snapped my fingers. "Flat broke."

Billy whipped out a roll and peeled a c-note off the stack. There were several of them. "Here kid. Pay me back Monday."

"Sure, Billy. Thanks." I almost choked when I saw that roll.

"You need to sell more cars, kid."

No shit, I thought. I didn't tell Billy that besides the two cars for Tommy Lee that were delivered on Monday, I hadn't made a sale all week, not one. "I could sell ten cars, but it won't do me no good today," I said, holding up the hundred. "Besides, it's not that easy sometimes."

"Sure it is, kid. It's like I told you. Just tell the maggots what they wanna hear. Works every time."

I had a little trouble with that.

Then, Billy said slyly, "I know how you can make some extra cash."

I wasn't sure I wanted to know. I knew Billy made deals on the side, but I didn't know what kind of deals. "I don't know," I said.

"Money's good."

"How good?"

"Real good."

"How?"

"All you gotta do is drive. You wanna make a run?"

"What's a run?" I asked curiously.

Chapter 13... For The Money

I wasn't about to do anything stupid, but I needed the money really bad, so I thought about what Billy had said. The next day, after the Saturday meeting, I decided to find out what he meant by _making a run_.

The meeting was nothing more than Big Tony screaming that we needed to sell some goddamned cars, or he was going to fire the whole goddamned bunch of us. Not eloquent, but effective. Patty was nowhere to be seen. She hadn't been around for most of the week, as a matter of fact. She'd probably decided to take a few vacation days, seeing as she'd been working such a grueling schedule and all. I didn't ask, and I didn't care. I had a couple of problems of my own to worry about.

Floor traffic was decent for a change, and it was hard to catch Billy between ups. By the middle of the afternoon, he'd been with a couple of maggots for about three hours, grinding them up like sausage meat. He did things like getting them to fill out a credit app and then telling them we didn't have an answer from the finance company, when we did; he held their IDs so he could keep them in the showroom; he told them he was going to talk to the sales manager, when he just went out back and had a smoke. Good sales techniques, huh? Anyway, I caught Billy out back as he lit his third cigarette.

"Do you need to get back?" I asked, knowing that his customers—excuse me, maggots—were waiting.

"Naw, I got time. I'm just wearing 'em down," he said, flicking ashes. "What's up?"

"I've been thinking about what you said yesterday, about this run thing."

"So, talk."

"Well, what's a run?"

"What's it sound like?"

Twenty questions. I was doing the asking, so I had to play along. "Sounds like you take a trip."

"You catch on fast."

"Why?"

"I don't ask."

"Well, what do you do? I mean, do you deliver something, or pick something up?"

"Something like that."

"Do you know what it is?"

"Stuff."

"What kind of stuff? Don't you know?"

"Hell no."

The whole conversation was getting stupid. "Then why do you do it?"

Billy looked at me sideways. For an instant, he looked evil. "For the money," he said very slowly.

"How much?"

"Depends."

Jesus, I could have been talking to a tree. I decided to continue the dumb conversation by asking an even dumber question. "Why do you want me to make a run with you? It's not dangerous, is it?"

Billy laughed, and blew a huge cloud of smoke into the air. "Listen kid, I don't want you to do shit, but I like you. I'm just tryin' to give you a little break, teach you that you gotta look out for number one. You need the money, right?"

"Yeah, I need the money."

"So, I'm just doin' you a little favor, that's all. You don't wanna go, that's up to you. Ain't nobody twistin' your fuckin' arm." Billy burned up half the butt with the next drag, and flicked the cigarette halfway across the back lot. "I gotta get going," he said. "My maggots are about ready to walk, which means they're about ready to sign. Look, I'm doing a run in the morning. If you wanna check it out, meet me on the used car lot at eight sharp. If you're not there, you're not there. No sweat off my ass." He took the maggots' IDs out of his pocket, and disappeared through an oil-stained door.

I heard my name blast from the PA system. Evidently I had the next up, so I made my way to the front desk and tried to look down Tanisha's blouse until the next maggot came in. Fifteen minutes later, I saw Billy escorting his two tired-looking maggots back into F & I. He'd closed the deal. I didn't sell shit.

Chapter 14... Kid Madrid

I got up early, made coffee, and cleaned up after Rudolph. It looked as if it was going to be a nice mid-May day, cool and comfortable in New York City, and I opened the windows hoping to get rid of the litter box smell. The giant trees that grew from the sidewalk on 57th Avenue appeared to have burst their buds overnight, and tiny clusters of oak and maple leaves were popping out all over, growing before my eyes, it seemed. For a moment I wondered how the big trees survived, their only access to water being the open sections in the sidewalk from which they grew. Those sections were left open when the sidewalks were constructed, which had to be decades ago. The trees were probably just little decorative things then. Now, their roots probably spread for miles under the streets in search of moisture. The trees did what they had to do to stay alive. They were tough. They'd survived anything, and everything—smog, spray paint, countless nails driven through their bark, head-on collisions with bread trucks, who knows what else.

I s-s-and s'd and dressed quickly, and opened a can of cat food, making the apartment smell like litter, and cat food, and coffee. There wasn't much noise on 57th Avenue at quarter to seven on a Sunday morning, and some conversations from the early-morning risers drifted up lazily. They were just out to get a paper, or off for breakfast at the Six Brothers deli. I thought breakfast sounded like a good idea.

As I walked toward Junction Boulevard and the deli, I noticed that the sun was trying to burst through the trees. The trees, they did what they had to do, I thought again. I checked my watch, and decided to skip breakfast. The trees weren't the only things that needed to survive. I turned around and headed directly to my subway stop on Queens Boulevard. I still had time to meet Billy by eight o'clock, and I figured maybe I could talk to him some more about this run thing. Maybe I would go. Maybe I wouldn't. I didn't have to go. Maybe I'd just see what it felt like when I got there. Sometimes the trains ran late on Sundays, and I wasn't sure if I wanted them to be on time. If they were late, and I missed Billy, well.... They weren't late.

Billy was leaning against a beat up, rusted out Toyota, smoking a cigarette. At least I thought it was a cigarette until I got closer and realized it wasn't.

Glassy-eyed, Billy asked, "Want some?" He offered the joint, and I noticed it had burned down to his fingers.

"No thanks," I said, wondering if he'd smoked the whole thing. He looked like hell.

"Good shit," he said.

I waved it off, smelling the pungent aroma.

"More for me," he said, taking a final hit. He reached into the car and cracked open a beer, while some filthy black dude came out from behind the used car trailer. I smelled him before he got within twenty feet of us. The bum just stood there, weaving back and forth, and Billy reached into the car and tossed him a can. I suddenly felt nauseous.

Billy slurped on the beer. "You ready to roll, or what?"

"I'm not sure," I answered apprehensively. "I don't think this is for me."

"C'mon Madrid. It's no big deal. All you gotta do is ride. Ain't nothing to it. You'll see."

"I don't know." I turned to leave. "Sorry I bothered you, Billy." I felt stupid.

"Up to you kid. But remember, you wanna play with the big boys, you gotta march with the band."

There he went with that band shit again.

"Besides, it's worth a thousand bucks."

I stopped. A thousand bucks? "What do you have to do, kill someone?"

"Nope. Just take a ride."

"That's it? Really?" It sounded too easy.

"That's it. Done it a hundred times. You in, or what?"

A hundred times? For a thousand bucks? That was a hundred thousand dollars. Even if he only did half of that.... "Just ride?" I asked.

"Just ride."

I looked around. There wasn't a soul in sight. The trees: they did what they had to do. "Where to?"

"Don't know yet. Find out in about an hour. When we do, if you don't wanna go, I'll drop you back at your place."

"How much do I get?"

Billy laughed. "You don't get shit. This is my run. You gotta make your own if you wanna make any money."

I calculated what I could do with a thousand bucks. I got into the Toyota, and moved the beer out of the way. "Let's go."

Billy lit a real cigarette, turned the key, and the little car coughed to life like an old drunk clearing his lungs.

"Where are we headed now?" I asked, still not sure I wanted to know.

"Sonny Olanzo's place. Ever been there?"

"Nope."

"Not far."

Not far turned out to be a thirty-minute trip through some neighborhoods where people walked in groups, even on a Sunday morning. At first, the streets looked respectable, but it wasn't long before respectable turned to repulsive, places where I wouldn't have buried a dead dog. They were old neighborhoods, the original suburbs, I guessed. The houses had to be seventy or eighty years old, row after row, street after street of them, all of them bent and drooped, with front fences that looked like rotten teeth, their shingled facades scarred and torn like old suits. Behind the dilapidated fences, there were no little lawns as was the intention when the houses were built, just tufts of growth that looked like wild hairs sticking out of an old scalp. There was the occasional old corner grocery store, armored in roll-down security doors that were spray-painted with illegible graffiti. The store signs had long since been shattered and replaced by more durable plywood ones, some of them hand painted with simple words like HOT RIBS, or Homer's Gravy Boat, or La Espana. The stores were all closed, and I wondered if they ever actually opened. I always thought Jamaica was a pretty diverse kind of place, but at least I could tell that the people I saw on the streets there were from the same planet as me. I wasn't so sure about some of the characters I saw on these streets.

The Toyota labored through potholes so big I was afraid a couple of them would swallow us whole. Eventually, we came to a large, secured gate in the middle of a high, gray-painted, plywood wall that took up most of an entire block. There was barbed wire over the wall, three rows of it.

I'd barely said a word the entire ride. Taking in the splendid scenery, I wondered if we'd entered a war zone.

"Where the hell are we?" I asked.

"Sonny Olanzo's place."

"What part of Queens are we in? We are still in Queens, aren't we?"

"South Ozone Park."

"Ooh," I said. "That's special." I figured I'd been to every neighborhood in Queens at one time or another in my life, but I don't remember ever having had a reason to go back to South Ozone Park. Now I knew why. Billy tapped the horn, and some huge, fat, black dude lumbered out of a little shack on the other side of the gate. He put a key into a padlock that was as big as my head, and we eased through the gate into a sea of cars, some of them sparkling new, some of them junk. We stopped in front of a steel building that looked to be one of those doublewide mobile homes the rednecks lived in down south, but it was on blocks instead of wheels, so it was hardly mobile.

"Nice place," I said.

Billy led the way. "Follow me,"

I looked back and noticed that the huge black dude was locking the gate. The thought flashed through my head that we might not be able to get out of there.

"You don't need to say anything," Billy instructed as he knocked on the door. I heard some loud Latin/rock music coming from inside. We walked into the music, past another scruffy dude who was eyeing me like I was going to bite him. We entered what I guess was the kitchen, seeing as there was something resembling a stove underneath the stacks of papers that were all over the place. Sonny Olanzo was sitting at the table.

Sonny was the wholesaler for the dealership, which means he bought up all the used junk we took in on trade. God only knows what he did with some of those clunkers. He got up and greeted Billy like he was family.

"Billy boy," he said, giving Billy a man hug and slapping him on the back. "How's it hangin'?"

"Not as low as yours," said Billy, cupping his crotch.

I'd heard around the dealership that Sonny used to make porno movies. I don't know if it was true, but it could have been. Hell, he looked like a movie star: a bronze, Hispanic Billy D. Williams.

Billy helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator. "Anybody else?" he asked.

"Who's this?" Sonny asked, his jovial demeanor suddenly turning to something else.

I thought surely lepers felt like I felt right then.

"It's okay," said Billy. "I asked him along. I know you'se always lookin' for runners, and well, Kid Madrid here could use the work. Right, kid?"

"Yeah, right," I finally croaked, my throat tight.

"Kid Madrid?" said Sonny. "Madrid—that your real name?"

The words scratched their way out. "Yeah, Carmen Madrid." I extended my hand in as manly a way as I could. Sonny took a moment to eyeball me, but finally shook it, squeezing it almost to death. He was huge. A beer didn't sound so bad just then.

"You oughtta tell me when you're bringing strangers," said Sonny.

I had the feeling that a warning light had just come on somewhere, but I couldn't see it.

"Relax, Sonny. Kid's as good as gold."

"Hhummpff," Sonny snorted indifferently.

"So, what's the deal?" Billy asked as he lit a smoke.

From beyond the kitchen area, directly in front of me, in what I assume was the bedroom, a door opened, and she came out. It was like the music you hear in those TV skits when the bimbo walks by: boom boom, ta ta boom boom, ta ta boom boom... ta boom, and every inch of her moved just like the music—boom boom, ta boom boom, ta ta boom boom, ta boom! She was right in front of me, and she gave me as much regard as she would give a piece of gristle stuck in her teeth. She might as well have been naked, except that air wouldn't have been as tight to her skin as the skimpy little thing she was wearing. A skinny, lipsticked cigarette dangled from her lip as she bent over and reached into the refrigerator for a soda, or a beer, or something—I wasn't watching her hand—then off she went back toward the door from which she'd come. I watched the cheeks of her ass rise and fall as she walked: boom boom, ta boom boom, ta ta boom! The door closed on cue. Man.

"I see you and Holly are still an item," said Billy.

"Fuckin' bitch," Sonny sneered.

Nice, I thought.

"Hey, if you want someone to take her off your hands...." Billy's lascivious grin said the rest.

"Ya might get your wish," said Sonny, extending his sneer. "I'm about to throw 'er out on her fuckin' ass and let her keep swallowing cock for a living."

"Ass... HOLE!" came her scream through the door.

Sonny ignored it. Obviously, he'd heard the pet name before. "Here's the deal," he said, closing out the little scene. "You drivin' the Toyota?"

"Yeah," said Billy, double streams of smoke blowing through his nose.

"Good. Take it into the shop, and they'll do the switch, but take it to Kennedy this time, Satellite Lot B-7, Row H, look for a yellow Fiat, Jersey plate BSR-8507. Here's the keys."

"The usual?" Billy asked, taking two sets of keys. "Trade spots?"

Pensively, Sonny said, "Come to think of it, let's change it up a little. Have Kid Madrid here pick up the Fiat and follow you. Put the switch car anywhere you want. Just be sure to write it down for me, okay? Last time we switched up, the asshole forgot to write it down and it took me two days to find the fuckin' thing."

"No problem," said Billy, helping himself to another beer.

"What are we carrying?" I asked boldly.

Billy and Sonny both froze and looked at me like I had just stepped off a spaceship.

Billy took my arm, and said, "Let's go, Kid Madrid." Sonny just shook his head and sat back down. We were dismissed.

Outside, Billy said, "I fuckin' told you not to talk."

We drove the Toyota into a garage, where two greasy, Mexican-looking guys who couldn't speak English, or didn't want to speak English, took the wheels off and put them on another piece of shit, an old, dusty, rusty Subaru. I didn't want to know why. Billy fired up the bucket of bolts and ground a pound as he forced the gearshift into first. It caught, and we were off.

We bumped along onto South Conduit Avenue, which I knew was way the hell down by the Belt Parkway. As the crow flies, I was probably only a few miles from the dealership, but in neighborhood distance, I was a long way from familiar territory. My butt was imbedded in the car seat, and I think either a spring was poking at me, or a fucking raccoon was biting me in the ass. It wouldn't have surprised me a bit. Soon, we were on the smoother, but not much, Van Wyck Expressway, breezing along at a comfy fifty-two miles an hour toward Kennedy Airport. Thank God, I thought, only too happy to leave that beautiful corner of the world behind me. I tried the radio, and it squawked to life. "Who was that girl?" I asked, thinking she would be a much better topic for conversation rather than what was really on my mind.

"She's something, ain't she?" said Billy. "Her real name is Aida... something. Sombrano, I think, but you might know her by her movie name."

"She's got a movie name?"

"Sort of. More like a description, actually. They call her Holly Hollow in the flicks."

"Holly Hollow?"

"Right kid, hollow. Like, she can swallow a ten-inch dick right down to the curly hairs, and still have room for more."

"You're kidding. Skin flicks?"

"You ever seen any of Sonny's movies?"

"No."

Billy just held his hands about a foot apart. "And he's about as big around as a hockey puck."

"And she—"

"Takes the whole thing down."

"Go on."

"And, she does that with two more whoppers inside her."

"Where?"

"Think, Kid Madrid. I remember one movie where she must have had a yard of cock inside her. Airtight, as they say. Well, she would have been, if she'd had a dick in each ear. That way, she could've heard them coming. Get it, heard them coming? Hah!" Billy slapped the wheel.

"Yeah, Billy, I get it." A yard of...? I thought: Jesus.

We drove the piece-of-shit Subaru to the designated destination and did the designated little dance with the cars, then drove the piece-of-shit Fiat back from the airport. Our only stop was when we pulled off the Van Wyck so Billy could get a pack of smokes and another six-pack. I took a beer by this time, and I had another by the time we made it to our final destination of the morning, actually early afternoon by then, somewhere in Flushing, I think. I wasn't really paying attention. I was thinking about Holly Hollow most of the way, and wondering between mental images if Chita could... Naw. Not a yard of it.

Anyway, we parked outside some swanky high rise, and then rode up to the 14th floor to 14R. It smelled wonderful in the hallway. Spaghetti sauce, I thought. I suddenly realized that I hadn't eaten all day, and my stomach began churning like there was no tomorrow. God, it smelled good. We stood patiently for a minute or two, and I heard, like, big band music coming from inside the apartment. I nearly shit when the door swung open, and there, in a cool, spiffy, cotton shirt, apron over the top of it, drink in hand, stood the huge body of Big Tony DeLorenzo.

Billy just tossed him the keys, and said, "Hiya boss," as he walked by. Big Tony took one look at me, and I felt like a leper again. My stomach stopped growling immediately.

Chapter 15... Pins And Needles

Did you ever have that feeling that one day, somewhere, as you're walking over one of those metal sidewalk grates, one of them is going to give way and you're going to fall through and get eaten by rats? Well, that would have been more enjoyable than what I went through that Monday, the day following my little excursion—excuse me, my run—with Billy. I hated calling it that. Truck drivers made runs. Baseball players made runs. Salmon made runs. And, drug dealers made runs. I thought for sure that's what I'd done. I mean, I didn't actually see anything, but what else could it have been? I don't know, maybe I'd moved stolen cars, but probably not. The cars were crap. Maybe I'd moved stolen, what, wheels? No way, but I'd moved something with Billy, and no one said anything about what it could have been. That bastard Billy didn't say anything about a lot of things, especially about Big Tony. I had absolutely no idea we were going to end up at Big Tony's apartment, and clearly, Big Tony had no idea I was going to be there. He didn't seem pleased. It would have been just fine with me if I'd turned around and hightailed it out of there, but that jerk Billy acted like he owned the damned place, and he pulled me inside without even asking Big Tony if it was okay.

There was some sort of party going on. Everyone had drinks, and that old swing music was playing, and I could tell that I was as welcome as a fly in a milkshake. There were no smiles at first, just stiff faces, faces I'd seen before. Tommy Lee Laws was there, as was his woman Lawanda, who was bigger, meaner, and uglier than him. Sonny Olanzo was there, as was the infamous Holly Hollow, and once again she was wearing the skimpiest shreds of stretchy fabric that intruded into every fold and crack in her body. Then, there was some other guy named Johnny who everyone seemed to be afraid of, including Big Tony, and two other big goons who I think were bodyguards, or something. They just sat in a corner drinking beer.

As soon as we got inside, Big Tony pulled Billy aside and whispered something in his ear. Billy broke away, saying quite loudly, "Hey, it's okay. Me and Kid Madrid here is a team, and a damned good one at that. Right Kid?" He slapped me on the back as if we were brothers. Big Tony just glared and returned to his cooking, which I guess is what he was doing when he answered the door. Billy helped himself to a beer while the other folks returned to whatever it was they were talking about, which was probably Holly Hollow. I mean, from the way she was dressed, that's what I would have been talking about. You can imagine what I was imagining, but even that wasn't enough to distract me for long. After some uncomfortable minutes during which I stood around like a total dork, I politely said my goodbyes, and vamoosed. I don't think anyone was sorry to see me go.

Big Tony scowled at me as I left, kind of like he was doing now from across the showroom. So far, and luckily for me, the extent of his obviously ruffled dander remained nonverbal. He was much too tied up with Patty to pay me any mind, and I left well enough alone, content to suffer his scorching glares for most of the morning.

At mid-afternoon, Delmo came up as I was examining the newest executive car that was put into the showroom, a brand new 1985, gun metal gray XJ12 sedan. It had it all, for a mere $37,532. I thought that maybe if it were candy-apple red, or chartreuse, or something, it would be easier to sell in Jamaica Queens.

"Heard you got the opportunity to visit Big Tony's place," said Delmo. "Nice, ain't it, Kid Madrid?"

Billy, that fucking blabbermouth. It certainly didn't come from Big Tony. "Real nice," I answered, remembering that it was indeed real nice. Classy. Lots of white in the place, and plants, lots of plants. I took the opportunity to follow up on what I'd been thinking all day.

"Hey, Delmo, you ever go on one of these runs?"

Delmo didn't answer right away, but I pried it out of him with a Big Tony-type glare. I'd absorbed so many it was easy to dish one back out.

"A few."

"What if I got caught?"

"Did you?"

"No."

"Then make sure you don't get caught next time around."

"I don't think there's going to be a next time."

"That's up to you kid. Money's good though."

"I didn't get any money."

Delmo just smiled. "You gotta get while the gettin's good, kid. Listen, ain't nobody gonna give you shit in this life. You gotta get your own."

I sat on pins and needles the rest of the day until I picked up my draw check. The bank was closed so I didn't get a chance to cash it, and I told Billy I'd have to pay him back the hundred the following day.

"No problem, kid," said Billy, patting his front pocket. "I got plenty from yesterday. How's it feel now that you've become part of the family?"

I didn't quite know how to answer that. I should have stayed and tried to sell a car, but I went home. I thought about a million things as I rocked along on the F train, and I didn't feel good about any of them.

Chapter 16... Hidden Armadillos

Do you remember those Boy Scout magazines in the dentist's office when you were a kid? Boy's Life, I think they were called. Remember how they got all dog-eared and marked up, but once in a while you got lucky and found a new one? Remember how you always flipped to the picture with the hidden animals drawn into it, like fish, or armadillos, or something? There were always ten or twelve animals turned at various angles, and inevitably there was always one I couldn't find. I remember how goofy I felt when my mom pointed it out to me. It was right there in front of me, and I never saw it. Once my mom pointed it out, however, my eye focused on it immediately. Well, that's what happened at the dealership the week I became part of the family, as Billy had said.

It started as I was checking on my little horse. No one was messing with the way they did the previous month. It was the seventeenth of the month already, and my horse was second to last, limping along while Delmo's was out in front at the eleven mark. Billy's horse was at nine. Patty Fairchild happened to be walking by while I was standing there debating whether or not I should shoot Flash In The Pan.

"You need to step it up this month, Mister Madrid."

Like I didn't know that. I didn't need that snotty little Vassar bitch giving me that crap. I didn't care who she was. "It'll get there," I said smartly.

"Not if you don't stop trying so hard," she said, stopping in front of my horse and standing there in her little tennis outfit. "You're pressing too hard, giving off bad vibes. It's making you lock up."

I didn't ask for her advice, and besides, like she knew. Who the hell was she to tell me how to sell cars? I was the salesman. I was tempted to tell her to go jump over a net someplace. "How would you know?" I said, even more smartly. I didn't care.

It didn't faze her a bit. "Hey," she snapped. "There's no reason to give me shit because your horse has a broken leg. Just watch, learn, and listen." She pointed to her ears with both index fingers before she pranced off, her white tennis sneakers flashing off the shiny tile floor. "And stop flapping your gums so much," she said over her shoulder. "You're talking so much that you're not hearing what your customers are telling you."

Customers? Customers, hah! That just went to show you what she knew about the car business. Maggots! That's what they were called. Maggots! And the maggots weren't buying, that's all. I was pretty torqued off. I glanced at the tower as I returned to salesmen's row, ready to give her the evil eye, but she caught mine first. Quickly, she snapped both arms into that same salute position, both index fingers pointing to her ears. Screw her, I thought.

The receptionist's page blared through the showroom: Mister Madrid, Mister Madrid. You're needed at the front desk. Finally, I had an up, a doctor, I found out ten minutes later, an up-and-coming young black guy; worked at Jamaica Hospital; looked like he had money to burn. I told him all about the brand new XJ12 that had come into the showroom two days earlier. It was perfect for him. I was sure he'd like it. I walked him in twenty minutes; couldn't even get him into a test drive.

"That was quick," said Delmo as I walked back down salesmen's row. It would be at least an hour before my next up.

"Just some friggin' tire kicker."

"Yeah. Right kid." Clearly, Delmo didn't agree with me.

"Did I do something wrong?" I asked. Delmo's opinion was a hell-of-a-lot more important to me than that Vassar bitch's.

Delvin Kennedy, Mister Delvin Kennedy.... You're needed at the front desk.

"I'm up next, kid. Gotta go."

Delmo buttoned his jacket and walked casually across the gleaming showroom floor, never answering my question. I figured maybe he wanted me to figure it out for myself. I felt nature calling, and I figured I'd go into the john and think about it. As I turned and headed for the bathroom, I noticed Billy and another salesman named Santiago looking at me. Both of them dropped their eyes in that split second of uncomfortableness that doesn't last long enough for you to ask, "What?" but where you know they were thinking something. I averted my own eyes as I continued past the tower, but my attention was drawn to it, and my eyes shifted to its confines where I noticed Big Tony staring me down. His eyes were sharp, and pointed, his smooth, fleshy face drawn tight and shiny. Patty was standing behind him, and she snapped yet another double-armed salute.

Piss on 'em, I thought, as I stood taking one. He was just a tire kicker, just a damned waste of time; he probably wasn't even really a doctor. I'd get the next one. Certainly, I'd would. I checked the up desk, noticing that I'd forgotten to put my name back on the list after the tire kicker. In the meantime, the afternoon shift had started to filter in, so it was going a while before my next up. I decided it was a good time to take lunch, so I headed to The Pizza Palace.

As I stood on the sidewalk and burned my mouth on a shovelful of hot cheese, I thought about what had just happened. Watch, learn, and listen. It hurt to admit that she could possibly be right. I was flapping my gums, trying to impress the maggots, but that's how you sold cars, wasn't it? Christ, Billy bullshitted all the time. At least I didn't lie, like he did. I wondered if Delmo lied. How about the other salesmen? I decided to go back and pay attention. It would be a couple of hours before I was up, and it would be a good opportunity to study things and figure out how I'd gotten off track. Watch, learn, and listen, she'd said.

That's when I discovered that the dealership was a lot like those pictures with the hidden armadillos. You never saw them unless you looked real hard.

The dealership was like some huge, revolving door, with all kinds of vehicles and people zooming in and out, the tower being the pivot point. Everything revolved around the tower—and Big Tony. I watched almost every vehicle that pulled onto the lot that afternoon, and from what I could tell, about ninety percent of them had nothing to do with buying cars. Sooner or later, almost all the occupants ended up in front of Big Tony's big desk. He schmoozed, and laughed with his visitors, shaking hands and slapping backs like he was running for office. I mean, the dealership looked busy, but the up list rotated slowly. I'd never noticed that before.

After a while, I asked Billy, "What's with all the people in the tower?"

Billy lowered his racing form just enough to peek at Big Tony's current guest, an important-looking white dude in a pinstriped suit. "Big Tony's doing business."

"You mean all those people are buying cars? They never even came onto the floor."

"Not necessarily."

I wondered what the hell that meant. I mean, there were people all over the place, a real assortment. They'd pop in, have a few words, and pop out. Sometimes, they'd hand something to Big Tony, or he'd write something down for them. I noticed that a couple of times Big Tony put on his suit jacket and waddled down off the tower, and, to me, it looked like he was trying to get away from Patty. He'd amble off into a corner, a huge arm draped around his guest, and they'd part a few minutes later, all smiles and hugs. Patty seemed totally oblivious to the whole thing, but it was understandable. I mean, Big Tony was real good at looking busy, but we weren't selling any cars! And who would have dared question what he was doing? I mean, I'd never noticed it, and I'd been on the sales floor going on four months.

It made me wonder. I thought about Chita, and the $10K reporting forms. I wondered further what happened with those forms when Tommy Lee's cars were delivered on May 1st. I thought about the Subaru ride with Billy, about the scene at Big Tony's place, with Tommy Lee Lawes and his big, veiny, black bitch girlfriend, Lawanda Hoopes. I thought about Sonny Olanzo, and his porn star girlfriend, and the slick guy at the party named Johnny, who looked bored out of his skull. Big Tony was definitely into some shit.

Mister Madrid.... You're needed at the front desk.

I looked at my watch. It was 6:30. It would be my last up of the day.

Chapter 17... Repeat Performance

Billy Gatton, Delmo, and two other salesmen, Earl Campbell and Marcus Allbright, were analyzing the various shapes, sizes, and colors—and they weren't talking about cars.

"Now, a snatch...." Earl said with authority. "A snatch is just a miniature version of a pussy."

"Are you saying that a snatch is smaller than a pussy?" Marcus asked. Marcus was a young black dude, about my age. He'd been in sales only a month longer than me.

"Much smaller," Earl clarified. Earl was a veteran. He'd been around. "And pinker. Pussies are definitely darker."

"And they stink," said Billy.

"Well, pussies don't stink, necessarily," Earl countered, "but they definitely have some tang to 'em. Now a snatch, a snatch ain't got hardly any smell at all. Tastes kind of sweet, even. Now, a cunt, a cunt stinks, and it's got flaps on it."

"And it's bigger," Billy elaborated.

"Gaping," said Earl. "Sounds like there's an echo in there when you're eatin' one."

"So, what color is a cunt?" Marcus asked.

"Brown," said Earl. "And real hairy, too."

"Definitely brown," Billy added for good measure. "And the older they get, the darker they get."

"It's like fuckin' a shopping bag," said Earl. "Yes sir, I'll take a snatch every time—sweet, nice. Mmmm, mmm!" he said. "Yes, sir, you can feel a snatch all the way in."

Marcus pointed to our new receptionist, who happened to be walking in front of a new, fire-engine-red Z28. "You think she's got a snatch, or pussy?"

"Definitely a pussy," Billy answered, only too happy to continue the conversation. "A nice pussy probably, but it's still a pussy. Delmo, what do you think?"

Unlike the others, Delmo didn't see the redeeming social value in the conversation. "Whatever you say, Billy." Delmo got up and walked to the front desk, shaking his head the whole way.

"I agree," Earl concurred, as if he were analyzing the results of some scientific study. "Now, that little fireplug in the back... Chita? Now, she's got a snatch."

Billy looked at me. "How about it, Kid Madrid? She got a snatch, or a pussy?"

Instantly, the conversation ceased to be humorous. I got up and left without saying a word, not wanting to give Billy the opportunity to analyze Chita's gynecological attributes any further. "What's with him?" I heard Earl ask as I was walking away. Fuck you, Earl, I thought.

I checked the up list. I was fourth, so it was going to be a while. I walked back down salesmen's row, careful to avoid the ongoing discussion. I checked my totals for the month for perhaps the five hundredth time that week. Why, I don't know, because it only served to disappoint me every time. I was on the verge of being overdrawn, and I wasn't going to have the rent money again. I needed at least three deals by the thirty-first to make my draw, and I was supposed to be off one of those days. Kiss that goodbye, I told myself. I figured I'd end up working opening to closing every day to try and pull it out. It was going to be a bitch. Suddenly, my name blared over the PA. I couldn't be up, I thought. I'd just checked. My name blared again. I walked back up salesmen's row, and I didn't know if I was happy to see her, or not.

"What about that one?" I heard Earl ask as I walked by.

"I think she's a cross between a snatch and a pussy," Billy replied.

"Ah," said Earl. "Now that would be a coochie."

They were talking about the babe at the up desk. It was Sweet Cakes. She was back, and she'd asked for me. Cro-Magnon Man was nowhere in sight.

"Hiya, Carmen honey," she drawled. The words flowed out of her mouth like maple syrup.

I heard the muffled guffaws from several other salesmen who'd suddenly materialized out of nowhere. They were as close to the front desk as they could get without drooling on it. "Hello, uh, Sweet, uh, I mean, Miss... I'm sorry, I don't remember your name." She was wearing one of those elastic skirts—which couldn't have been any shorter—and one of those bustier things underneath an open-necked shirt. It looked like there were two bald heads in there.

"Candy," she said, her voice thick.

"Of course, Candy." Christ, I thought, if her last name had been Sticky, I wouldn't have been surprised. "Where's your friend with the BMW?"

"He's not here right now. Won't be around for a while. I just thought I'd come over and take another test drive."

"Go ahead, Carmen honey," said Tyrone Saunders. He was up when Sweet Cakes came in and asked for me. "Give her a ride."

Sweet Cakes shot Tyrone a look. It melted quickly into a salacious sneer, and it was enough to let Tyrone know he'd never get near it if he were the last man on earth. Assuming she would follow me, I moved away from the front desk so as to put some distance between her and the gathering army of open-mouthed salesmen, some of whom had their hands in their pockets and were beginning to paw their privates. Up in the tower, I noticed Big Tony had gotten up to see what all the commotion was about. He didn't sit down right away when he found out.

Unexpectedly, I heard my name come over the PA again. Mister Madrid, come to the tower, p-l-e-a-s-e. It was Big Tony, and his voice was soft, and low, but his stiff look was anything but. When I got to the tower, he put a thick finger up to my nose, and for a second I thought he was going to stick me with it.

"Don't fuck this up," he said with a low growl, his slick hair glinting in the light from the huge plate glass windows. He was a little too serious for comfort.

"No problem, Big Tony." I thought my voice cracked, but the pressure on my brain prevented me from hearing myself clearly.

"Now get the fuck outta here," he commanded.

I put on my strut as I went back to Sweet Cakes, who'd attracted the attention several more slobbering sales vultures. Normally, my showroom strut was a very subtle white man's pimp roll, but I realized five steps into it that I was walking more like a wounded duck. Carrying a cup of coffee and some papers, Chita walked by me in the opposite direction and she gave me a wrinkled-nosed look that said, What the hell...? I paid her no mind. Billy's was smiling mischievously, and he made a ring with his left hand into which he poked his right index finger. It was rather disgusting, even for him.

"Let me know if you need any help," he said, repeating his offer from the first time he'd seen Sweet Cakes.

"Yo, Kid Madrid," another salesman on the row called out. "I got an electric razor in my desk if you want to shave your teeth after that test drive."

"It's a dirty job," said another, "but someone's gotta do it. Right Kid?"

I ignored them all. "I'll be right back," I said to Sweet Cakes when I got back to her. "Gotta get a dealer plate. Which car are you interested in?"

Her answer was like an incendiary device. "You pick it, Carmen honey. I'm sure you have great taste."

"Ooohh-weeee!" came one call as I walked to the back to get the plate.

"Hey Kid," came another. "You think she's got great taste too, or you think she tastes great?"

"Less filling. She's definitely less filling."

"Tastes great."

"Less filling."

"Tastes great!"

The salesmen's muffled laughter filled the showroom, and there was no way Sweet Cakes couldn't have known what she was doing. She didn't care, and clearly, she was used to it. She just stuck her tits out, and said, "Let me see the big black one."

It was enough to send them all into a frenzy. The laughter continued until we pulled out onto Jamaica Avenue in an exquisite $34,000-dollar XJS, 3.6-liter coupe, with tinted windows, and chrome wheels that cost $400 bucks apiece. For a second, I thought even the Jaguar hood ornament was going to turn around and sneak a peek at her. Why not? The entire staff had come out to get a look, even Chita, and I'd never been so embarrassed in all my life. But you know what? Every guy in that dealership wanted to be in my shoes right then, and they would have done anything to trade places with me. Screw 'em, I thought. It was my turn in the spotlight.

It only took a short trip down New York Boulevard, a right turn on Linden, and another short trip up Sutphin Boulevard before Sweet Cakes said, "I'll take it, Carmen honey."

I almost croaked. A sale! Almost a literal lay-down. I didn't know what to say. "We'll just go back, then, and work up a price," I stuttered.

"Ain't nothing to work up besides this, Carmen honey." She reached over and put her hand down between my legs. "I'll pay whatever the sticker says if I get what I want out of this deal. Too bad we didn't get to finish our business last time."

Gulp. Gulp-gulp. She was squeezing my crotch, which was quickly putting on weight. I felt her fingers fumbling for the zipper.

"What were they saying back there?" she asked, a pointy fingernail tracing her lips. "Tastes great?"

Oh no, I thought. Here? In the car? In the middle of Sutphin Boulevard? My face must have shown my panic because she stroked my lips with the same finger.

"Don't worry sweetie pie, that's what tinted windows are for." She squeezed my throbbing bulge, and I thought I was going to pop right then and there. "I'll do you, if you do me."

I stopped the car. The words came out between gasps. "I... I can't," I said. I felt a bead of sweat roll down my forehead and perch on my eyebrow. I felt my heartbeat in both my heads.

"Why not, Carmen honey?" she asked all sugary-like. "Big, strong, good lookin' boy like you needs some release, ain't that right?" Her tongue traced her lips.

She squeezed again, and I was ready to explode. Quickly, before I popped a hole in my pants, I took her hand away. I didn't know what to say, afraid to say anything for fear that I'd piss her off and lose the sale. Either that, or that Cro-Magnon Man would come out of nowhere and blow my head off. I didn't have to say anything, as it turned out. She just popped up back into her seat and chimed wistfully, "Well, okay then. It's your loss, Carmen honey. I got guys who'd crawl on broken glass to get some from me, but hey, to each his own."

"I... I've got a girlfriend," I lied.

"Ooh," she cooed. "That's so cute."

I didn't know if she was being sarcastic, or not. "Do you still want the car?" I asked nervously.

"Sure," she said as nonchalantly as if she was buying a pack of gum. "I'm sick of looking at cars." She pulled a compact from of her purse, and began smearing lipstick. "Don't worry, Carmen honey," she said, seeing my face in the mirror. "The deal's not blown, although you could have been."

I put the Jag into drive, and banged a left onto Jamaica Avenue, feeling the sweat ooze from every pore in my body. As we stepped from the black Jag, the professional sales staff at Fairchild MotorCars was waiting for us. Suffice it to say that the tail of sweat down my back made it seem as if I just run a marathon. I'm sure everyone thought it was a sexual marathon.

I paraded Sweet Cakes down salesmen's row and parked her at my desk. She crossed her legs for all to observe, and lit a skinny brown cigarette while I whipped out a sales contract. "First name was Candy, wasn't it?"

She tossed a plastic ID on the desk. The picture wasn't hers. Then, she reached into her purse and plunked down a block of hundreds which had to be four inches thick. It looked like all new bills. "I think there's fifty thousand there, Carmen honey. Just give me my change."

I looked around. The wall of salesmen parted and Big Tony came through them like a big Moses. He pointed to the money, and wagged a crooked finger at me. "Go see Holtzman," he said in my ear. "He'll take care of it."

What a day that was.

Chapter 18... The Second First Friday

You talk about being hot shit. I was the hottest hot shit at the dealership that whole week, not because I'd sold so many cars, but because of that Saturday afternoon with Sweet Cakes. The guys talked about it for days, and every one of them gave me the business. I remember how even Kokei—Kokei Okamoto: he was the Japanese mechanic back in the shop who didn't speak any English; he could fix anything—even Kokei had a goofy grin all over his face, and he gave me a signal that I guessed was some sort of Japanese code for doing the deed. Everyone thought Sweet Cakes and I had, you know, taken a different kind of test drive.

I didn't say much to Chita during the course of that week for a couple of reasons. First, I tried to snag every up I could on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, and, as I had anticipated, I worked day and night trying to deliver some deals, which I didn't. The most conversation we had was in passing, but even in those brief moments I knew I was back in limbo land with her. I was sure it was because of the thing with Sweet Cakes, which was the second reason we didn't talk much. I mean, she saw the whole raunchy display, or at least I think she saw it. If she didn't, God only knows what she'd heard. In any case, I got a lot of those looks. You know those looks: those arrogant, self-affirming, knowing, cocky, confident, pitiless, I-told-you-so looks, cold ones, like they were carved out of a glacier. There weren't a lot of words that accompanied those looks, just an occasional, "Uh-huh," or the token, "Okay," with not a lot of emotion in there. It wasn't until late Friday afternoon when I went to my cubbyhole to see if the commission checks for June had been distributed, that I discovered that she was more than a little frosty. She was downright pissed.

"Becoming quite the big man around here, aren't you?" she snapped, unsolicited. She tried to look busy, shuffling papers on her desk with her head down in an avoiding way.

I sensed that I was being attacked. "I just went on a test drive with her," I said, assuming that's what she was alluding to. "Nothing happened, regardless of what you've heard." I thought she was starting to be a little holier-than-thou, quite frankly. No, quite frankly, I thought she was starting to be a scratchy little pain in the ass.

"Is that supposed to be important to me?" she shot coldly.

That was a fine howdy-do. "Guess not," I shot back. "I mean, it's not like you care."

"I don't. You want to screw around with some slut in the back seat of a Jag, hey, that's fine by me."

"I told you, it didn't happen."

"Hey, Carmen honey, it's like you said. Why should I care? I hope you didn't catch anything."

Ouch. That was low. I watched as she put her head back down and shuffled some more papers. Fine. If that was the game she wanted to play.... "A little touchy, aren't we? What's the matter, can't take a little competition?"

That did it. The sarcasm elevator shot to the top floor. "Don't flatter yourself, Mister Big Shot. You're not worth fighting over. You want to play with little Miss...." She picked up a piece of paper from her desk. "Miss Laura Sovkolski, knock yourself out."

"I'm not acting like a big shot."

"You're not? Gee, I've never seen that appealing little bounce in your step before. It's very becoming. Do you think you could teach me how to do it?"

"Up yours."

"In your dreams."

Well, that conversation was over. I went back to salesmen's row, and saw our shapely receptionist coming down the row handing out envelopes. The checks. I took mine when she came to me, not taking my customary glance at her front porch as I immediately tore into the envelope. What? I said to myself. $279 bucks! That's all? Again? Where was the rest? I quickly shuffled through the vouchers. There were only six of them. I looked at the check and ran down the figures: gross amount, taxes, that fucking FICA, insurance, draw pay; it all looked in order. I looked at the vouchers, then at the hold figures and the commissions. They looked right. But the Jag, the black Jag, Sweet Cakes' Jag—where was the voucher for the Jag? That deal alone meant almost a thousand bucks to me. I remembered that Chita had some papers on her desk that had something to do with the Jag. I stormed back there, really not caring if she was busy, or not.

"Where are the papers on the black Jag?"

"You mean Miss Sovkolski's deal?"

"That's not her real name," I blurted. I don't know why.

"That doesn't surprise me."

"What papers do you have?" I demanded.

"Just the finance papers."

"What finance papers? She paid cash."

"I don't know anything about that," she said. "This deal hasn't been finalized yet. We're still waiting for an approval from the finance company."

"I told you, there's no finance company. She paid cash!" I repeated hotly.

"Not according to this. This deal isn't final yet."

"But the car's off the lot. It's delivered!"

"You need to talk to Holtzman about all that." Chita looked up from her desk. There was no mercy in those eyes.

I looked past Chita's desk, into the depths of the business office. Holtzman was in his office. Quickly, I pushed through the swinging half door behind Chita's desk. I knocked softly. He looked up; little half glasses perched all the way down his thick nose.

"What?" he barked.

"I'd like to talk to you about a deal."

"Which one?" The glasses came off. He seemed impatient.

"The black Jag I sold on Saturday. It was a cash deal, and I didn't get paid for it."

"It wasn't cash," Holtzman said plainly, returning to his work.

"It was cash," I said quickly. "I brought the money back here myself."

Holtzman folded his hands in front of him, slowly, and looked me straight in the face. "Mister Madrid," he said, "it wasn't cash. Got it?"

A chill ran down my neck. I stood there for a second and tried to think of something to say. All I could think of was, "When am I going to get paid for the deal?"

"As soon as we finalize it, Mister Madrid, just as usual. You should see it on your next commission check."

"My next commission check? But that's a month away. I need the money now. I've got bills to pay." I held out my check for him to examine.

Holtzman looked at it, and flipped it back to me. "You need to sell some more cars, Mister Madrid."

Chapter 19... June 1st

Holtzman's comment bothered me that whole night. "You need to sell some more cars, Mister Madrid." I guess it was brilliant business insights like that one that would propel me into one of those high-paying, professional, upper management jobs, like Holtzman's. Yes sir, sharp as a tack, that guy was. That jackass. I hardly slept, and, while some of my thoughts centered on my unfriendly conversation with Chita, most of them centered on my future as a hotshot car salesman. It wasn't going as planned. Briefly, I thought about going to Big Tony about the situation. I mean, it just wasn't fair. That damned car was burning gas and over the curb, and I should have been paid for it. But then, at about 3:30 in the morning, I decided that complaining to Big Tony probably wasn't a good idea. After all, he and Holtzman were tight, and anything I had to say would have been viewed as nothing more than some snotty-nosed kid complaining about the fact that he wasn't selling any cars. I had to accept the fact that if I were doing well, the issue wouldn't have been any big deal. Besides, my status with Big Tony was uncertain, given the incident with the shot-out mirror and my showing up unexpectedly at his condo with Billy. Nope, going to Big Tony definitely wasn't a good idea. Another brilliant business insight, right? I just decided to accept the situation, and try my damnedest to sell some cars. May had just been a bad month, that's all. But, what was it Delmo always said? A bad month is an accumulation of bad days. Well, June wasn't going to be a bad month, and that first Saturday in June, June 1st, wasn't going to be a bad day. I walked into the Saturday morning meeting with renewed determination, and it wilted like a spent hard-on.

The main topic was that Patty Fairchild's period of training was nearing completion, and beginning that day she was going to be working deals. Big Tony made the announcement as we gathered below the tower. He was magnanimous, almost to the point of being friendly, which was something I'd never seen. Big Tony was always Big Tony—calculating—and one didn't negotiate with Big Tony on anything, which, like I said earlier, was one reason why complaining to him about the thing with Holtzman wasn't a good idea. But, being calculating was exactly why Big Tony was the best at working deals. He let those maggots get all hot shit and cocky, letting them think they were getting over on him. In the end, however, as they were leaving the tower, their cocky smiles were nowhere to be seen, and neither was their last dime. An impolite murmur buzzed among us gathered peons when Big Tony spilled the news about Patty. We all saw some of our money flying out the window.

June 1st was a nice day, breezy, and warm. Days like that were good for selling cars, and normally the guys would have been in a good mood. However, even the sight of our jiggling receptionist didn't arouse the slightest interest.

"What'dya think?" I asked Delmo as we gathered with Lemuel Milljoy after the meeting for coffee and donuts.

"I ain't takin' her shit," said Lemuel, shoving half a jelly donut into his mouth. The powdery white sugar looked like clown makeup against his black skin. "I'll work my own damn deals. That girl ain't got a clue." Delmo smoothed his dapper khaki suit and adjusted his tie in the window of a forest-green-metallic Corvette. He nodded in agreement, but Lemuel didn't have enough patience to wait for him to actually say something. "I'll tell you how it's gonna go," Lemuel went on. "It's gonna be fucked up. What the hell does a rich, honky bitch like her know about selling cars in Jamaica?" Lemuel obviously didn't know much about tact, but he was right.

"Just have to wait and see," said Delmo. "Big Tony's not gonna let a lotta shit go down, not for long, anyway. She screws up, and he'll tighten the rope. You'll see."

Normally on such a nice day, before it got too busy, the guys would have gathered on the lot for some sightseeing on Jamaica Avenue. That morning, however, everyone huddled around in groups, guzzling coffee and shoving donuts down their throats. You could certainly hear the soft buzz of hushed conversation everywhere in the showroom, but the loudest sound was Patty's scratchy morning voice. Things started blasting along at full roar by late morning. Patty took a few deals, and she walked them all.

"Damn!" Marcus Allbright exclaimed as he came down the row. He slammed his folder on a desk, in front of which were Earl Campbell and Lemuel Milljoy.

They all erupted into animated chatter, but I just stood nearby and listened due to the fact that I was white, and it was a black thing going on. They cursed, and gestured, and complained, mostly about Patty being white rather than the fact that their maggots walked. I couldn't help but visualize Patty's double-armed salute, watch, learn, and listen, so I listened some more, and I have to say that I didn't hear anything about whether or not their maggots were qualified buyers. I'm sure that if Big Tony had walked their maggots, the conversation would have been entirely different, although Big Tony was white too. He just wasn't as white as Patty. No one was. She was a WASPest WASP I'd ever seen. Watch, learn, and listen, I thought.

"And where the hell is Big Tony, anyway?" Marcus questioned indignantly.

Indeed, Big Tony was conspicuously absent.

Suddenly, without warning, it came through the entrance door. Boom boom, ta ta boom, boom boom boom ta ta boom, boom boom, ta boom boom: Holly Hollow, all the way across the showroom floor. The black thing stopped, and it immediately turned into a guy thing. You can imagine what they said. I watched, and I listened, and I learned. I didn't know there were so many ways to—well, never mind. Boom boom boom, ta ta boom, ta ta boom boom. Back she went. Boom boom. She was out, on the lot, and that's where I spotted Big Tony in animated conversation with Sonny Olanzo. Big Tony was waving his arms wildly, and Sonny was just as hot. After a while, Sonny and the legendary Miss Hollow jumped into a snazzy Cadillac, and peeled off the lot.

Big Tony plowed his way between the cars and blasted into the showroom, heading immediately to the tower. He paged Delmo. "Delmo just left for test drive," Lemuel yelled up from the floor. Then, my name crackled over the PA. Madrid, to the tower—NOW! I looked up, and Big Tony had a huge finger pointed at me. He looked kinda flushed.

"Where the hell is Billy?" he screamed when I got there.

"I don't know," I said truthfully. "You know how he is after payday. Maybe he blew too much toot up his nose last night."

Big Tony just stood there, sweat trickling down his brow. It was the first time I'd ever seen Big Tony sweat, and, despite his fleshy neck I saw his veins pulsing at about a million miles an hour.

"Son-of-a-bitch," said Big Tony. He shot a look at Patty, who was babbling into the phone, barely cognizant of anything else, it seemed. He grabbed me powerfully by the arm and forced me down the six steps to the floor, and we ended up in a corner. He hesitated, until finally, breathing heavily, he said, "I got a Sunday run tomorrow and I ain't got nobody to take it. You want it?"

It was my turn to hesitate. "Gee, I don't know," I said.

"Hey kid, I got a run tomorrow, and I need somebody for it. If you still wanna be workin' here on Monday, you take it, understand? You ain't sellin' enough cars for me to let you use the toilet here. It pays a grand."

A grand? I thought about my $279 commission check. A grand sounded good. "What do I have to do?" I asked nervously.

"You know Sonny Olanzo's place?"

"I've only been there once."

"Here's the address." Big Tony handed me one of Sonny's business cards. "Tomorrow, ten o'clock. Bring me the keys when you're done."

"What keys?"

"The ones in place of these." Big Tony handed me two jangling keys. "These go to the blue Plymouth parked behind the used car trailer. Take it home tonight, and be at Sonny's by ten tomorrow. Got it? Sonny will tell you what to do from there. All you gotta do is drive, kid."

I took the keys and I felt them rattle in my hand, I was shaking so much. All I had to do was drive, he said. I didn't ask any more questions.

"Now get the fuck outta here," said Big Tony, "and sell some fuckin' cars today unless you got something better to do."

Part Two... Getting Hot

Chapter 20... Dead Junkies

The night shift on a Saturday: there couldn't have been a more forlorn assignment. Rita O'Shea looked at her watch, noting that it was still fifteen minutes before her shift: midnight to ten, in South Jamaica of all places. Why not Siberia, she thought, or perhaps Antarctica? She wasn't thinking about the cold, but that they were the only places on Earth that could be less exciting. The 113th Precinct wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind when she'd earned her detective shield four months earlier. South Manhattan, or downtown Brooklyn, those were the hot spots. Even the Bronx would have been okay, but, South Jamaica? Queens? The only assignment that could possibly have been less exciting would have been Staten Island. Hector Morena stepped up with two cups of coffee with the shift alerts tucked under his arm.

"What's happening tonight?" she asked. "More stolen bicycles?"

Morena's knowing smile was formed from years of experience. If only that's what the job was about in New York City. He'd served in four different boroughs in his fifteen years, and he would've been happy dealing with stolen bicycles until his retirement, which was four years, nine months, twenty-eight days, and nine hours away, but who was counting? He took the reports from under his arm and sipped some lukewarm coffee, wetting some of the longer whiskers on his thick, graying moustache.

"A couple of stolen cars, some domestics, a bar fight over on Farmers Boulevard, and some petty larceny stuff. Just the usual," he replied to O'Shea. He was happy for the usual. He'd seen enough of the unusual. The usual meant he could put in his ten and go home.

Rita wasn't that complacent. Like her, her mass of thick red hair had a mind of its own, and she pulled it back into a tight ponytail. "Why am I not surprised?" she asked rhetorically.

Morena smiled again. "You'll be happy for grand theft autos in about ten years. You'll have seen plenty of the underbelly by then."

"I haven't seen much of anything so far," she said as she pulled on her shoulder holster, checking the safety on her Beretta nine-millimeter. She liked the Beretta. It had more stopping power than the revolvers the older cops carried, and it fit her hand better.

"Don't be so impatient," said Morena, wiping his moustache.

So far, it had been a quiet night in South Jamaica and the other neighborhoods covered by the 113th, which included Saint Albans and Springfield Gardens, quieter, even, than a weeknight. The neighborhood did have its slice of meanness—there wasn't a part of New York City that didn't—but it was hidden in the homes of the working people who lived in the area, ninety-three percent of whom were black. Inside those homes, those ramshackle homes, husbands lit up on crack and cheap booze, or kids with nothing better to do got high out of frustration. Most of the action, as Rita called it, took place when a husband or boyfriend went off. In almost every case, the victim knew his or her attacker, so there wasn't much intrigue there: poor black guy stabs poor black wife in dispute over rent money; abused girlfriend shoots mean crackhead boyfriend; illegal Colombian kid is killed in fight over sneakers—page ten stuff, if it made it into the paper at all. Nobody cared anyway; the fact that the area was the epicenter of New York's crack epidemic simply meant that the shock and despair had become ho-hum, part of everyday life.

Rita took a sip of coffee and made a face. It would keep her alert, all right. "Any messages from Clint?" she asked. Clint was a snitch, a kid she and Morena had caught a couple of months earlier passing crack on a corner on 199th Street. He rolled over on his source and they let him go, and now he fed them information for twenty bucks a pop. He left messages under the name of Clint Eastwood when he called.

"Haven't heard from him," Morena answered. "You expecting something?"

"Just following up from last time. I left a message for him last week."

"Left a message? Where?"

"I don't know, his place I guess, or wherever the phone number goes to. Some girl answered."

"Good luck," said Morena. "More than likely he has no idea you called."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because you sound like a bill collector."

"You mean, I sound white."

"You even sound like you got red hair."

Rita smoothed her wavy locks. "Don't worry, he'll call."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Woman's intuition. Besides, he likes the money."

"He does that," Morena agreed. "Trading information for crack money. What a way to run a railroad."

"Better he should get the money from us rather than robbing a cab driver."

"Not many cab drivers would pick him up."

"Whatever."

"You gonna squeeze him about that bad batch of nose candy that's making the rounds?"

"You think he knows anything about it?"

"Probably," Morena answered as he flipped through some more papers. He stopped. "Speaking of which...." He handed Rita one of the reports.

"Another one?" she asked before she even read it. "Where?"

"Liberty Avenue, behind a Key Food."

"How many is that now?"

"Six this month."

"Doesn't say if it's heroin or cocaine." She handed the report back to Morena.

"Let's go find out." He tossed his empty cup into the trashcan, and Rita dropped hers in as well, still full. They walked past the battered Formica desks inside the squad room to the stained office door of Lieutenant Harmon Grimstead. Usually it was open, but not this time. From his desk, Grimstead glanced through the glass and held up a finger, indicating just a minute. Seconds later, he and his guest got up, and Grimstead opened the door for his superior, Captain Eron Delgado.

"Detectives," Delgado said as he walked by.

"Captain," they greeted in return.

Grimstead didn't wait for Morena and O'Shea to get comfortable. "We got two more ODs," he said gruffly as they shuffled in. "Looks like the same shit that's been making the rounds. At this rate, we're gonna have a lot of dead junkies on our hands. I need you to come up with something—and soon." He handed Morena a piece of paper and waved them both out of the office.

Chapter 21... No Problem

Carmen Madrid wheeled the blue Plymouth Fury down Woodhaven Boulevard, wondering why he didn't notice them before. He'd never looked for them, probably, but there they were, tucked between the apartment buildings and the row houses, huge, old, impressive homes, most of them brick; they'd be there forever. New York City was full of these little pockets of wealth, but one had to look closely to find them. He braked at a light, speculating that New York's aristocracy had already been established by the time those homes were built, and that particular money, and its trappings, was located in Manhattan, not Queens.

No, these homes weren't those of the Rockefellers, or the Morgans, or Roosevelts. These were homes to a different type of success story, working men, men who'd built their fortunes in the pounding commerce of New York City. They were probably unglamorous businesses, Carmen speculated—trucking companies, meat packing plants, construction companies—and these men built their homes in Queens because, more than likely, that's where they'd grown up. Manhattan was another city to them. Besides, he thought further as he continued to build the imaginary lives in his head, they would never have penetrated the Park Avenue inner circle, not with names like Romano, or Kowalski, or Papadakis. They were content to build their monuments in Queens, where they lived, just like he did, forming their own little niche of blue-collar aristocracy. Big shots, they were called. He could've been one, he fantasized, and he wondered if there were any car dealers' homes among the monuments.

The light turned green, and he left Forest Hills and Forest Park behind, heading south. The environment changed abruptly as he crossed Atlantic Avenue and traveled toward Rockaway Boulevard. He glanced at the dashboard clock as he banged a left there, noting that it was 9:45 and he was going to be a right on time. He hung a right onto Lefferts Boulevard and turned a couple of more times, counting the street numbers as the atmosphere turned bleaker, and bleaker: 128th Street, 129th Street, 130th Street.... His turn was next, and he immediately recognized the high plywood wall from his first trip with Billy. At the gate, the same huge black dude came out of the little shack within, unlocking the same huge padlock, and Carmen felt the same twinge of anxiousness as he did last time, only more so. The dude waddled the gate open and gave Carmen the eye as he rolled past. Sweat dotted the guy's forehead, Carmen noticed, despite the Sunday morning coolness. For some reason, it heightened his anxiety. He parked deliberately, barely hearing car door click shut over the Latin music that leaked into the yard.

Taking a moment to look around, he noted that the cars parked there in the yard seemed like prisoners waiting to be executed. Climbing the three steps to the door of the doublewide, he knocked softly. The door whooshed open, surprising him, and the smell of stale beer and cigarettes smacked him in the face. Sonny Olanzo appeared, a towel wrapped around his muscular form, and Carmen couldn't help but notice the huge bulge under the towel. It wasn't hard to figure out that something had been going on, or was about to go on, and for a second he thought Sonny might be hiding a loaf of bread under the towel. The conversation took place in the doorway, and it was short.

"You driving the blue Plymouth?" Sonny asked hurriedly.

Carmen just pointed.

"Take it to this address, and wait."

Carmen took the slip of paper, noticing that it was on Long Island. "Then what?" he asked.

"Then drive it back here, and take the black Datsun back to the apartment." Sonny pointed toward an old, black Datsun 210 with dented fenders a few yards away.

Cutting through the beer smell, a woman's voice called from inside the doublewide. "C'mon Sonny. Tell whoever it is to come back."

Feeling goofy standing there with Sonny's pecker pointing at him like a cannon ready to go off, "What apartment?" Carmen asked.

Sonny's look was like, duh, stupid. "Big Tony's," he said condescendingly, if just two words could be said that way. Before he turned to attend to whatever it was he had to attend to, Sonny gave Carmen a singular once over. "Don't fuck this up, kid," he said, the words conveying much greater meaning than was on the surface.

Carmen gathered his machismo, and said, "Piece of fuckin' cake, Sonny." He took the keys, and indeed it was. Three and a half hours later, he was knocking on the door to Big Tony's apartment in Flushing.

"Any problems?" Big Tony asked when he opened it.

"None."

"Good. You want a beer, kid?"

Carmen said, "Sure," and put on a lesser version of his showroom strut when Big Tony ushered him into the condo. Just like last time, Sonny Olanzo was there, all lovey-dovey with Holly Hollow on the white upholstery. Carmen took a Heineken and gulped it quickly as he reviewed the morning's events in his head. Big Tony and Sonny both seemed pleased with the results, so he figured he could be cool about it. After a while, Holly got up—boom, ta ta boom boom, ta boom—crossing the room to one of those new projection TV screens.

"You wanna stay for the party?" Big Tony asked as he set down a plate of veggie munchees.

"What party?" Carmen asked, thinking he could use another beer, or ten.

"We got some friends comin' over, kid. We're gonna watch Holly's new movie, then she's gonna give us a little show."

Big Tony tossed a videocassette onto the fluffy couch. Above the several almost naked people pictured on the box, in creamy white letters, was the title Hollow Throat. Under that was written: Starring the unbelievable Holly Hollow.

Carmen felt something tingle. He looked over at Holly, who smiled a leering little smile at him as she ate a carrot stick. "Sure," he said, wondering with mixed anticipation what kind of friends were coming over, and what kind of show Holly was going to give them. He took another beer, and drank it quietly. It was time to chill, and listen to the big band music.

Chapter 22... The Green Lantern

The darkness seemed thicker than usual, and the light from the few street lamps that were working dimmed quickly as if it were trying to penetrate Jell-O. The faces on the sidewalk were looking back at her. "This damned car stands out like a sore thumb," Rita grumbled, referring to their plain, police-issue Ford Crown Victoria.

Morena looked over, and said, "It's not the car."

She knew what he meant, which was that there weren't many red-haired white chicks riding around in South Jamaica this time of night. Morena turned left and headed south, passing corners where turf changed almost as often as the street signs. The dudes hanging on those corners turned their backs quickly as the car passed, and pocketed their hands. Others whistled when they saw Rita's face through the open window. One grabbed his crotch.

"Say mama, you lookin' for some dark meat?"

Another approached from a different corner, his eyes huge and glassy, shining from the darkness that was his face. He literally staggered into the car. "Saayy man, kin you'all spare some change, man?" His eyes were pockets of fire, and he held a pint of something purple.

Rita's cold stare wasn't enough of an answer. Ugh, she thought. The slimebag smelled like shit, literally. "Get away from the car," she growled lowly.

Others came up quickly. "C'mon, man," another tattered street roach slurred as he yanked on Rita's door. "Give 'im couple of bucks."

"Get away from the car!" she yelled again.

Yet another smelly night freak yelled, "Give us some money, man!"

Rita yanked the Beretta from her shoulder holster and pointed it straight into a pair of crack-crazed eyes.

The street people retreated immediately. "Fuckin' bitch," one of them muttered as he staggered to the curb.

Rita turned to Morena. "You gonna move this car, or what?"

Morena laughed, and sped through the intersection.

"What the hell's so damned funny?" Morena didn't answer, and she shoved the Beretta back into her shoulder holster. Their destination was Baisley Pond Park, which bordered Kennedy Airport.

"Where did Clint say to meet?" Morena asked about fifteen minutes later.

Rita checked her watch, and tried to read a street map in the muted light of the dashboard. "Brookville Boulevard, near the edge of the park. He said there's a place called the Green Lantern near the corner of Brookville and 149th Avenue. Should be after we see the lake."

"That must be the lake over there," said Morena, pointing to the swaying cattails that appeared in the headlights. They drove for a long minute along one of the dunes that dotted the area around Kennedy Airport, the marsh grasses and branchy ragweed waving back and forth as if they were giving a greeting. The thundering, eerie whine of descending airplanes dominated any other sound.

Rita flipped on the air conditioning, hoping to lessen the suddenly obvious smell of airplane exhaust that always seemed to hang in the air around the airport. "I think we're close," she said above the whine of another plane passing directly above them. "There's a street sign."

Morena took a right onto 149th Avenue and spotted the place, a small, low building at the end of a string of warehouses. It was set off like an unwanted orphan from the other buildings, and crumbling with neglect. A single, green neon strip penetrated the darkness: ...reen Lantern. The G was out. Morena parked next to two battered cars, and stepped gingerly into the sand and crumbled asphalt. Rita followed, avoiding some sparkling green jewels of broken glass.

"Nice place," she noted as yet another decreasing whine screamed overhead.

Morena said, "Wonder if the appetizers are any good."

Inside, they made their way across the sticky floor to sticky bar, where a fat bartender in a stained t-shirt was polishing a glass with an equally filthy towel. "That was fast," he said, shifting a wet cigar stub from one corner of his puffy mouth to the other.

"You been expecting us, Mac?" Morena asked as soon as he determined that the bartender was talking to him. Rita wrinkled her nose.

"You's the cops, ain'tcha?"

Morena flashed his badge. "Yeah, so?"

"Over there." The bartender went back to his polishing as if nothing had happened. It was just another day on the job.

Over there was a vinyl booth around which the patrons, all three of them, were gathered in hushed conversation. As if they knew the routine, they all moved away when Rita and Morena approached. There, in the booth, was a skinny young white kid, the knife that killed him still protruding from his neck. His eyes were wide open, and a little river of warm blood ran down his neck, glistening.

"You still want an appetizer?" Rita asked.

"Not right now," Morena answered as he looked over the situation.

As the blue lights from an arriving police cruiser flicked on the walls, Rita picked a business card off the floor from underneath the table before it got soaked from a blood puddle nearby. "Sonny's Wholesale Autos," she said, reading the card. "You think maybe this was on him?"

Chapter 23... Mi Casa es Su Casa

Every piece was a tawdry display. The sofa was in shiny red leather. The cocktail table was equally tasteless, it having a round, mirrored top, ringed with velvet. A pair of aquarium table lamps gave off a muted glow, the bulbs red, or yellow, depending on the mood on any particular night. Speakers the size of small refrigerators stood in the corners, their dispersion effectively balanced so as to inundate the room with a profusion of sound. On this night, the mood dictated that the sound be low in volume, and from Jimi Hendrix, and that the bulbs be both red and yellow, the rheostats set so that an orange blush barely escaped from the striped shades. The pod of furniture seemed to float in the surrounding darkness.

Tommy Lee Lawes lit some sweet incense and spilled a tiny heap of white powder onto the mirrored top of the cocktail table, scraping it into a thin line. Taking a McDonald's straw from its wrapper, he cut it and gave half to Lawanda, the orange glow from the aquarium lamps glinting off the one-carat diamond stud in her nose as she bent to the table. When she was finished, Tommy Lee formed another neat line, carefully removing his hat before partaking. Again, the orange glow reflected, this time off his Jheri-curled hair. They both leaned back into the cushions, and waited for the rush to stabilize. Opening his eyes, Tommy Lee watched as one of the bitches from his stable diddled herself in the darkness while she waited for his signal to come over and service him first, then Lawanda, with her tongue. His euphoria was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom.

"Yeah," Tommy Lee called out.

The intercom blared loudly, cutting into the soft mood he was trying to create. "We got visitors," the sentinel from downstairs announced.

"Shit." Tommy Lee went to the window and looked into to the street below, then across. Nothing unusual, Clyde was in place. Tommy Lee flicked the Bic lighter he always kept on the windowsill, and Clyde's return signal flickered momentarily from across the way. Everything was okay.

"Who is it?" Tommy Lee called into the atmosphere.

"Buyers, I think," the sentinel said.

"You think?"

"A couple of white kids, man, drivin' a hot-ass Porsche."

Tommy Lee looked over at Lawanda, who nodded. "Send 'em up." Business waited for no man. Moments later, he heard a soft knock and signaled for his beefy whore to leave. Naked, she opened the door and walked past the downstairs sentinel and the two kids who were waiting outside Tommy Lee's third floor kingdom. Disdainfully, perfectly at ease with her nakedness, she eyed the young strangers as she passed. They were the ones out of their element.

Tommy Lee flipped a diamond-ringed hand, instructing the sentinel to leave as well. The two kids stepped inside and stood at the edge of the darkness, while Lawanda slid a huge, silver Colt .45 automatic between the sofa cushions.

"Don't be bashful," said Tommy Lee. "Come on in where I can see y'all." He waited as his guests stepped into the glow. When they did, he noted the kid's shaved head and the chain slung across his open leather vest. The girl sported a large tattoo, multi-colored, on the slope above one breast, and six earrings in one ear. From her other ear hung a small padlock. "My, my, my," said Tommy Lee. "Ain't we hip."

The young dude tried to act tough. "Hear you got some good shit, man. Heard you stock Mad Dog."

Tommy sucked his teeth and spit a little something at the kid's feet. "Who'd you hear that from?"

"It's on the street, man."

"What street?"

"What you mean, what street?"

"Ain't it funny how white people talk black when they're trying to be tough?" Tommy Lee asked. "Where you from, asshole?"

The last licks of Purple Haze filtered off the speakers, and the kid pulled back his vest, revealing the handle of an automatic. The girl lit a cigarette, defiantly blowing a stream of smoke toward Tommy Lee.

"I don't like people calling me names," the kid snarled.

The music of Isaac Hayes emanated from the speakers next, the sound coming from everywhere all at once. Tommy Lee towered over the kids while Lawanda moseyed into the darkness, cocking the hammer of the .45 just behind the padlock dangling from the girl's ear. When the boy turned, Tommy Lee reached into the kid's vest and snagged the automatic.

"Who sent you?" Tommy Lee asked casually as he examined the gun. He played with it while the kid's toughness melted away like ice on a hot pan.

"Morrow," the kid answered. "Morrow sent me, and told me to ask for The Lawman. Said I could get some Mad Dog from the Lawman."

"Morrow, from Kew Gardens?"

The kid nodded.

Tommy Lee looked at Lawanda, whose eyes were blazing. She seemed ready and perfectly willing to blow the girl's head off. All she needed was for him to say the word. The girl punk stood frozen, and a tear melted down her face. "We be talkin' to Morrow about this," Tommy Lee said to no one in particular, but Lawanda nodded in agreement.

"Nice piece," said Tommy Lee as he continued to examine the kid's weapon. "Don't you think?" He pressed the barrel to the kid's forehead.

"Hey man, we just came to score some Mad Dog, man. We don't want no trouble. Morrow sent us, man." The kid's voice cracked weakly.

Tommy Lee grinned, his picket fence of teeth reflecting orange in the weird light. "How much you got?" he asked.

"I got a grand," the kid replied nervously.

Tommy Lee lowered the gun, and motioned for Lawanda to do the same. "Well now, ain't that a tidy little sum? Let's see it, boy."

Slowly, the kid reached down and pulled out a wad of fifties.

Tommy Lee grabbed the bills. "Well now, maybe we can do some biddness after all."

Suddenly, her voice quivering, the girl said, "Let's get out of here, Andy."

"Shut up!" the kid shouted, and the girl cowered like a cornered poodle. The kid refocused on Tommy Lee. "Morrow said this is some really good shit, man."

"Only the best, Andy."

"How 'bout it then? You got the money. C'mon, man."

Tommy Lee crossed the room to a picture of Martin Luther King, swinging it open like a cabinet door to reveal a small safe. Opening it, he withdrew two plastic bags filled with white powder, and tossed them on the mirrored cocktail table.

The kid protested, but softly. "Only two?"

"That's what you bought," said Tommy Lee, fingering the bills. As if it was some consolation, he added, "It's worth it, Andy."

"Mind if we take a little taste?"

"Hey, mi casa es su casa."

The kid undid one of the baggies and spread a couple of healthy loads on the cocktail table. Tommy Lee looked down as the kid formed the lines. "That's a lot of toot there, Andy. You might want to cut the stuff first."

"You got your money," the kid snapped bravely.

Tommy Lee just put on his Stetson. "Que sera, sera," he said. He watched as the kid did half a line, then switched nostrils and did the other half. The girl punk repeated with the other line. Less than thirty seconds later, while they were still wiping their leaking noses, the kid grasped his chest while his face froze in terror.

"Shit!" Tommy Lee screamed, but it was already too late. The kid keeled and fell off the sofa, twitching and convulsing at Lawanda's feet. The girl punk uttered a sickening scream and grabbed her head before she fell on top of him, blood from the burst blood vessels in her brain trickling out her nose.

Lawanda didn't blink an eye. She took the baggies off the table and put them back into the open safe, then pushed the button on the intercom. "Get Clyde from across the street," she said. "We got some white trash up here that needs throwin' out."

Tommy Lee fished some keys from the kid's pocket, and examined the Porsche logo on the key chain. "I told Andy that was too much toot," he said as Sly and the Family Stone came on and sang Dance to the Music.

Chapter 24... Caterpillars

Henry Lindbaum covered the plate with aluminum foil and put it into the oven. He saved a plate every night, but it wasn't like it mattered any more. She didn't eat it half the time, and the routine was getting old. He opened his brief case and took out some folders, figuring he might as well get some work done as long as she was going to be late again. What would it be this time? Dismembered body in a bathtub? Quadruple murder over the TV remote? Cat stuck in a tree? Wouldn't the cat be nice for a change? Rita acted tough, as if it didn't bother her, and at first he believed it. She wolfed down her food as if her day had indeed consisted of rescuing cats, but it took him a couple months to realize that the toilet ate as well as she did. Somehow, dinners didn't set well when the table conversation was about mutilated bodies or starving babies.

"Rita, darling, I love you," he'd said. "I hate to see you tearing yourself apart over these, these...." Animals killing each other, he wanted to say, but he knew she'd boil over if he did. Who cared? He certainly didn't. If they wanted to murder each other, well, let them, he thought, just as long as it was confined to their own territory, as long as it didn't touch his world. But it did touch his world, and Rita was the messenger.

"I don't understand why you put yourself through this," he'd said more than once. "Where's it going to get you? You wallow in this filth every day. You see parents who've killed their children; you see children who've killed their parents. And what? It goes on, and on, and nothing you do is going to stop it."

"So what are we going to do? Write off an entire generation?"

"They're already gone, Rita. They've been gone, and now they're working on raising their kids to be—"

"Don't say it, Henry."

"I'm only stating the truth."

"They're people Henry, just like you and me."

"Don't be ridiculous. They're hardly like you and me. They're...."

"What? Say what you feel, Henry."

"You can't change the world, you know."

"I can do something."

"Oh, please. I'm so sick of listening to that altruistic, make-a-difference crap. There's nothing you can do that's going to change the way they are."

"And what way is that?"

"Just look around the world, Rita. Look at Uganda. Look at South Africa. Look at every major city anywhere and you'll see that no matter where they are, they're killing each other off a generation at a time."

Henry remembered how she sat still for a long time when he'd said that. He thought he'd finally gotten through to her. "Why don't you use your education to really make a difference?" he'd asked. "Why don't you take all that Skidmore knowledge, and all that NYU training, and put it to good use. Help people who want your help, who appreciate it. Stop wasting your time with the dregs."

"You're a bigot."

"I am what I am, but I'm not a bigot. I'm a realist."

"We have to stand for something bigger."

"We have to stand for this." He rubbed his thumb and his forefinger together. "This is what's important."

He didn't see her for four days after that.

He looked at his watch. It was almost nine, and her shift had ended at four. He took the plate out of the oven and put it into the refrigerator. It was going to be another late one.

* * * * *

At quarter after four in the morning, after he'd felt the bed jiggle for the fourth time that night, Henry got up and shuffled through the shadows of the apartment, knocking softly on the bathroom door. "Are you okay in there, sweetheart?"

Her muffled sobs were the only answer. He opened the door and saw only the top of her head as she sat on the toilet lid, crying. He went to her. He wanted to be with her right then. "What is it?" he asked, making the first move. He put a consoling hand on her shoulder. She didn't answer. "Do you want to talk about it?" Her face came up, her fair skin paler than normal, sickly-looking. Her eyes looked like tiny red road maps. He knew she had to get it out. "I'm listening," he whispered. He was there for her, but she hesitated. He knew how hard it was for her to admit she wasn't as tough as she pretended to be. He stayed with her, not pulling away. She quietly stroked his hand.

"It was awful," she said helplessly.

He was almost afraid to ask. "What was it?"

"Two kids, young."

"ODs?"

She nodded.

He wanted to feel her grief. He wanted to feel the pity, and experience the sorrow so he could help her through it, but those emotions didn't penetrate the invisible wall around him.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked again. Hopefully there would be no description of discolored bodies, or the smell of death. She seemed grateful for the opportunity to talk to him.

"It was such a waste," she said. "They were supposed to graduate from high school this Sunday."

He didn't say anything. He wanted to be the loving, consoling partner she needed, but they were just two more casualties of the subculture of the dispossessed. There would be two more poor black kids to replace them, two more who would emerge from that world of illegitimate children, and half-whore mothers, that world of unknowing and unknown fathers. After a minute of silence, when he saw that she wasn't coming out her funk, he asked, "What makes these two so different?" His tone didn't sound as concerned as he would have liked, but it was difficult for him to show as much compassion as she did.

Rita pulled another length of toilet paper and wadded it into her nose.

"There now," he said.

Her anger shot through the sobs. "Don't patronize me," she snapped, shoving his hand from her shoulder. "These kids were white, Henry. Are you listening? White kids! Well off-white kids, from Kew Gardens."

He was a little taken aback, but he'd heard that story before, too: kids looking for a thrill, being rebellious because they didn't get all the feeling and sympathy they needed at home, blah, blah, blah. His older brother's kid was like that, the unappreciative little snot. They lived in Kew Gardens. A needle of concern pricked him in the toe.

He pulled Rita from her seat on the toilet lid, and hugged her. She felt cold despite the warmth of the season. He stroked her tenderly. That always made her feel better. He knew that despite her tough exterior, she was a touchy-feely person, and she needed to be close to him right now. He didn't understand when she pushed him away. What an odd look, he thought to himself, seeing her tears flow freely. The job was really getting to her. The little jab of concern in his toe began eating at him the way an army of caterpillars eats a tree—slowly, painfully so, millimeter by millimeter, until eventually only twigs remain where a million leaves had been. What an odd look, he thought again.

"Are you okay?" he asked, feeling her warm tears drop and run along his skin. It was worse than normal, he thought, much worse. He pulled her back to him, and hugged her again. He loved her.

Rita spoke into Henry's shoulder. "You need to call your brother," she said.

The caterpillars suddenly began taking bigger bites. "Why?" he asked.

Chapter 25... Chopsticks

Michael DeLuna puffed on his Parodi, reviewing the agenda for his regional meeting. Not many thirty-six-year-olds smoked Parodis. Actually, few men under sixty did, but he'd smoked the gnarled black cigars since his seventeenth birthday in Sicily when his grandfather had rewarded him with one for killing his first man. Now, his breath always smelled of them, strong and distinct, like the image he was trying to portray. The Parodis were his trademark, and their acrid aroma announced his arrival well before he entered a room. He knew he should quit, but he couldn't, not now. Michael reflected that a lot of things in the Mafia were like those little black cigars: habits, unbreakable ones, the way things have always been done.

Sometimes he hated the old traditions. Take his birth name for instance: Italo. How Italian. That's why he'd changed it. Michael wasn't so stereotypical. His father was probably turning over in his grave, but that was just too bad. There were other things he wanted to change, as well. The organization needed to become more up to date, more professional, like any major corporation, but change didn't come quickly in the Mafia. It created too much uncertainty. He was certain of one thing, however: once a Mafioso, always a Mafioso, regardless of what you called yourself.

He rolled the cigar between his fingers as he organized his final thoughts. He motioned for another cup of espresso and Johnny brought it right away.

"Thanks Johnny." He dropped a twenty on the table.

"Hey boss," said Johnny, about to ask the same question he'd asked innumerable times since they'd been together, "why do you keep payin' for your own drinks?"

Poor old Johnny, thought Michael. He answered the same way he did every one of those times. "Because I want to set an example, Johnny, no free rides. You know what I mean?"

Johnny picked up the twenty and shrugged as if he'd heard it for the first time. "Yeah. Okay, boss." He carried it to the bar for some change.

Michael went back to his notes, thinking that somewhere along the way Johnny had taken one too many shots to the head. He was loyal though, and Michael respected that in a man. Then, it came to him. That was it. That's what was missing from the lesson he was preparing: a central message, a theme, if you will. Loyalty: what a wonderful trait. He wrote down some words: loyalty, allegiance, faithfulness. It was perfect, and he'd end with that message. He organized his thoughts for the final sermon, and wrote some more: Loyalty. A man could survive a long time with that trait, for the word implies that there is a special bond, a togetherness, and in togetherness, in unity, there is strength. To some degree, I agree with those of you who think we are stuck in the ways of the past, that we must bring our business into the twentieth century. Actually, it's almost the twenty-first century now, and that's how far behind the times we are. But, having said that, I will also say that we must stay together and persevere in order to survive. If we do so, we will be successful when all the renegades are long gone. Life is like chopsticks. Individually, they are easily broken. But, put just a few of them together, and they are almost impossible to break.

He'd hold the chopsticks over his head and break a couple of them. That's what he'd do. Then, he'd put fifteen or twenty of them together, and ask every man in the room to try and break them. No one would, of course. It was an old metaphor, and he'd seen it before, but it was still effective. Then, Michael thought to himself, maybe he needed to be more direct. Maybe those young warriors wouldn't get it. Maybe they wouldn't see the veiled threat in the metaphor of the broken chopsticks. Maybe he should simply have Johnny walk up behind Sal Gagliano, that lying fuck, and split his skull open with a hunk of pipe and splatter his brains into his espresso. Yeah, that's it. Fuck the metaphor.

Chapter 26... The Envelope

Carmen heard his name blast over the PA system. Mister Madrid, please come to the tower. It was Patty. What the hell did she want? She was starting to be a real pain. "Yes?" he said testily after he'd climbed the six steps. She was sitting in front of Big Tony's desk, and the herb plants had been moved around to one side of the tower. Gutsy, he thought. He sat down next to her.

"Mister Madrid, I'd like to talk to you about your performance this month."

Carmen thought: what the hell...? Who did this little wench think she was, chastising him for his performance? She had some performance problems of her own to worry about. He looked over at Big Tony, who was ignoring the whole situation. "What about it?" he snapped.

"Don't be such a smart-ass," she snapped right back.

Carmen glanced at Big Tony again, who turned his back and suddenly seemed very busy. Obviously, he'd heard what Patty was doing; was he just going to sit there and let it happen? Carmen folded him arms stoically as she played sales manager. He really didn't wanna hear it.

"Well, I can see this isn't going the way I wanted," she said. "I called you up here, Mister Madrid, to tell you that I'm glad you're doing better this month than you did last month. I was beginning to get a little concerned."

Like she'd been around long enough to get concerned. "About what?" he cracked.

"About the fact that if it wasn't for that big deal on the Jaguar at the end of the month, you would have been overdrawn."

Carmen gave her a long look before responding. She didn't even look like a sales manager. Sales managers were supposed to look sharp, and slick, like Big Tony. She looked, well, like one of his old high school teachers. Some sales manager. "I didn't get paid for the Jag," he said pompously.

"What do you mean, you didn't get paid for the Jag? I remember the customer. She took delivery right away." Patty glanced from Carmen to Big Tony, then back again when it became clear to her too that Big Tony wasn't going to participate.

The stupid bitch, Carmen thought. "Holtzman said we were waiting for financing to be approved."

"What financing? I thought she paid cash."

Carmen squirmed. He didn't need to take this shit. He'd just had a bad month, is all. "What's with the third degree? All I know is that Holtzman said we were waiting for financing before I could be paid for the deal."

Big Tony finally turned around. "The customer changed her mind," he said. "The deal was financed."

Carmen took note that Big Tony looked directly at him even though he was addressing Patty. He looked away from Big Tony, and looked at Patty, who was looking at Big Tony. She looked away from Big Tony, and looked at him. It was a three-way look-fest, and Carmen figured that right then was a good point in the history of mankind to shut the fuck up. He just sat there while Big Tony went back to what he was doing. For a split second, before Big Tony's big body shielded what was on the credenza, Carmen thought he saw an envelope full of money. He looked at Patty. The look on Patty's face indicated she'd seen it too. Patty looked up, then looked down and wrote something in a little spiral notebook open on the edge of the desk. She looked back at Carmen, her face unreadable.

"Well, good, Mister Madrid. Then you made your draw without the deal on the Jag. I feel much better now. How many deals have you delivered so far this month?"

Carmen let out a slow, impatient exhale. She had no clue. "Counting the Jag, five," he answered reluctantly.

"Well, you're on your way again, aren't you? And it's only the ninth of the month. Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Madrid. Remember, watch, learn, and listen."

He was dismissed. He stepped off the tower and walked back down salesmen's row, shaking his head the whole way and asking himself what the hell that was all about. Before reaching his desk, he heard his name come over the PA system again, and his heart nearly stopped. This time, it was Big Tony who was paging him. He looked back, and noticed that Patty had already left the tower. Big Tony wagged a finger at him.

Seemingly unconcerned about the scene with Patty, Big Tony handed him a thick white envelope, and said, "For the run, kid."

Yeah, thought Carmen, screw her. He took the envelope and said, "Thanks, Big Tony," like they were old friends. Now, he could pay his rent, and he felt better. He'd wanted to ask about that run, about what he'd moved, about Sonny, and the car switch-a-roo; he'd wanted to ask about a lot of things, but he didn't. As long as he didn't get caught, there was no need to ask anything. Besides, he'd already told himself that was his last run as well as his first. Screw that skinny bitch. Big Tony would take care of him.

Chapter 27... The Blue Moon Social Club

The cars poked along slowly through crowded streets. Some of them came up through Chinatown. Others came over the Brooklyn Bridge and across on Houston. Still others came down Fifth, but all of them were on time. They worked their way past the Ferrara Restaurant, converging ultimately on the Blue Moon Social Club in what was left of Little Italy, as the neighborhood was slowly getting swallowed up by Chinatown. Outside, the street was jammed with gawking tourists. Many carried cameras in hopes of capturing a real live Mafioso in their viewfinder, as if they could distinguish such from among the thousands of people parading the streets. For them, it would be like looking for fly shit in the peppershaker: most Mafiosos tended to blend in.

The cars arrived one by one, their nameplates the ultimate in respectability: Cadillac, Lincoln, Mercedes, Rolls-Royce. Most of them were black, all of them were shiny, impossible to differentiate as vehicles belonging to anyone other than prosperous businessmen, which indeed their occupants were. But, their business was special. The black Jaguar was the last to pull up in front of the single unmarked door to the club, and out stepped Salvatore Gagliano with his romantic interest of the moment, to whom he lovingly referred as Sweet Cakes.

At the door, Johnny "Legs" Capitanio respectfully put up a hand, momentarily blocking Gagliano and his playmate from entering.

"You know the rules, Mister Gagliano, sir. Ain't no ladies allowed in till after the meeting is over."

"Eh, fuck the rules," said Gagliano. "It's about time we changed the fuckin' rules, eh Legs?"

Johnny Legs respectfully stepped to the side. The boss wasn't going to like this.

Inside, Gagliano walked proudly among the gathered, his trophy proudly affixed to his arm and on display for all to admire. If he noticed the disbelieving looks from the other dark-suited men when he pulled out a chair for her, right up front next to the podium, he ignored them. "Park it right here, Sweet Cakes. I'll be back in a flash." Sweet Cakes sat. No one else did.

From his private office, Michael DeLuna came down the stairs and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a woman seated at the long meeting table. He scanned the room, but none of the other twenty or so men would look at him directly. The sound of tinkling of ice cubes was amazingly loud at that moment. He moved to the podium, and announced, "Gentleman, I'd like to call this meeting to order."

The men took their seats. Gagliano was last, a cocky, defiant smile stuck to his face.

"Gentlemen," DeLuna said again, "thank you all very much for coming. I see we have a guest." He eyed the bimbo as she grandly displayed her cleavage for all to admire. "Before we hear the reports, I'd like to say a few words." He looked over at Johnny and made a motion. Johnny came over and handed him a bundle of chopsticks. The snap of the first chopstick was like a gunshot in the room. When he was done with his speech, DeLuna called on the first of his capos, and then took a seat on the right side of the podium.

Eddie Jackson took the podium. "Things in the Bronx is goin' okay," he began, "except for the fact that we's gettin' a lotta new horse on the street from down south."

"Colombian?" one of the other capos asked.

"I ain't talkin' about Miami," said Eddie. "These fuckin' bastards got distribution up the ass, and I understand they're makin' deals, for Christ's sake."

"Deals?"

"Deals, can you believe it? They's sellin' the shit at a discount to get kilos out on the street. You wanna buy a few kilos of coke, you gotta take a couple of horse to make the deal. It wouldn't surprise me if the fuckin' bastards ran a fuckin' ad in the paper—a fuckin' buy one, get one free sale. You'd think they were fuckin' Macy's, or somethin'. The shit's hittin' the street like wildfire."

"I got the same problem," said Bianco Perducci from Brooklyn. "And the shit's good, high grade, better than anything we can get from the gooks."

DeLuna made a note. "What about the rest of the operation?"

Eddie Jackson took some papers from an inside pocket and read his report. "Besides that, everythin's doin' okay. Numbers receipts is up eleven percent. We still runnin' strong on the south side with that new fencin' operation on Jerome Avenue, and things is steady with the broads. Outside of the thing with the wetbacks, all in all I'd say we's doin' okay. I got no complaints." Eddie Jackson sat down, satisfied. "Oh yeah," he added. "We got a judge in our pocket if any of you guys ever need a ticket fixed in the Bronx." He smiled a tight Mafioso smile.

"Good," said DeLuna. "What about Brooklyn?"

Bianco Perducci stood, but didn't bother to take the podium. "We got someone trying to take turf in Brownsville, but I don't think he gonna be in business long." Everyone knew exactly what he meant. That was it. He sat down.

"Queens," said DeLuna.

Sal Gagliano gave Sweet Cakes a little kiss, and took the podium. He scowled angrily at the horrified faces of his fellow capos and their lieutenants. He cleared his throat, brushed back his jet-black hair, and stood stiff-armed against the podium. "We gotta get these fuckin' operations into the twentieth century," he yelled as he slammed his hand down. "What's wrong with runnin' a fuckin' sale, eh Eddie? We gotta do somethin' besides sit on our fat asses if we gonna fight these wetbacks."

Eddie Jackson's face turned gray as cement, but harder.

"If we keep doin' things the same way we have for the last hundred years, we gonna be wiped out. The wetbacks, and the chinks, and the niggers is gonna take our turf, and cut it up like a fuckin' birthday cake if we don't change things."

"What would you suggest, Sal?" DeLuna's voice was soft and calm, like the eye of a hurricane.

"I say we make a deal, cut 'em in on some of our action."

The gasps from those listening blended together into a single, palpable rush of breath.

"Hey, Sal," Perducci called out. "You ain't talkin' about givin' them a look at our operations, are ya?"

"Sure, why not? It makes sense. Hell, big corporations do it all the time. One day they're enemies, the next they're in bed together. Mergers, gentlemen. Mergers are the way of the world."

"Hey, Sal," Perducci called again, his hands doing as much of the talking as his mouth. "We been fifty years tryin' to develop and protect our turf, and you's sayin' to up and let someone in on it, just like that? That ain't the way things are done, Sal."

"Hey, fuck the way things are done." Silence blanketed the room, so much so that tourists' voices could be heard from outside. "You don't wanna get with the times in Brooklyn, that's your fuckin' business. Me, I got a plan."

"I'd be anxious to hear it," said DeLuna. He hated to admit it, but the man had a point. "How about after today's meeting?"

"Sure," Gagliano said smugly. "Anytime you want."

"One more thing," DeLuna added. "Word is a couple of kids went south on one of our products a couple of days ago. Word is they bought it at one of our depots. Anything to that, Sal?"

"Where you get that from?"

"We got payroll on the force, remember Sal?"

"I got it all under control. They just got ahold of some stuff we hadn't cut yet. It's happened before. What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is that these weren't your typical ghetto junkies, Sal. This is going high profile. Not only that, word on the vine is that the stuff was called Mad Dog. Word is Mad Dog is a renegade brand we ain't approved. That right, Sal? You know the rule against bringing in product without committee approval."

"Hey, it's like I said. I got it under fuckin' control, okay?"

DeLuna pressed forward. "The word is that it was our friend The Lawman again. He's causing problems for us, Sal. I thought last time we spoke about this, you were going take care of that particular problem."

Gagliano's lips went rigid, white with tension. "I... told... you, I'll take care of it."

A phone rang in the background, the sound thunderous in the still air.

Johnny Legs called out from the hallway. "Mister Gagliano, sir, phone's for you."

Gagliano tore his eyes away from DeLuna's, which were locked onto his. "Yeah. Right." His steps echoed off the walls.

A moment later Johnny Legs whispered something to Sweet Cakes as he pointed down the same hallway into which Gagliano had just disappeared.

Sweet Cakes seemed thankful for the opportunity to leave the room. She got up quickly and pranced into the hallway from which she and Sal were never seen, or heard from, again.

Chapter 28... Le Cirque

Le Cirque was an amusing little place. Appropriately expensive, it had its share of power lunches, but a surprising number of the knights of industry avoided it entirely, primarily because Le Cirque was where the wives of the knights went, skinny types who wore skinny black dresses and ate skinny food while sipping six-dollar cups of watercress tea while gossiping about any women who weren't wearing skinny black dresses. Well, Shannon Fairchild wasn't wearing a skinny black dress, and, getting out of the cab at Park Avenue and East 65th, she knew she'd be rich swill for the pâté eaters, but she didn't give a fuck. She didn't understand why Paul liked Le Cirque.

She flipped a bill through the window of the cab, and said, "Keep the change." What the hell, she thought. It was a healthy tip, but the cab was still cheaper than a limo. A limo would have been just for appearances, and even though it was rumored that Shannon Fairchild had more money than many countries, she was careful how she spent it. It had taken a long time to accumulate it.

She stopped for a moment and popped open a small compact to examine herself. The June breeze blew her silk dress tight to her long, imposing body, made even more imposing by four-inch heels and the high, drawn back hair—colored to the required champagne blonde shade, of course. Even at fifty-three Shannon Fairchild carried a model's body, and a model's face. She also carried the look of experience. She moved along at a rapid clip, not noticing that the skirt of her expensive wrap-around dress had blown open in the breeze and that every guy on the street ogled her as she passed. She didn't give a fuck about that either. She had other things on her mind at the moment.

"Madame," said Pierre, the sassy little faggot with the fake French accent who played God inside Le Cirque. "It is a pleasure to see you again." Pierre seated the incoming women according to their standing in the social pecking order on any particular day. Tables became suddenly reserved, or miraculously available, depending on the scuttlebutt. "Your table is waiting. Is one of the banquettes all right?"

"Fine," Shannon said curtly. Following Pierre's skinny little butt, the gossip must be good, she presumed, in order to get one of the highly desired banquettes right up front.

Heads turned as she passed, drifting immediately back to the middle of their tables so that any comments wouldn't be overheard, although they would certainly be repeated.

Stopping to air kiss an old face—and getting older, it seemed—Shannon said, "Hello Myra. You're looking wonderful. Give my best to Horace."

"I'm afraid Horace and I have divorced," said Myra.

"So sorry," said Shannon. "I hadn't heard." It was the requisite response.

Myra held up a manicured hand and displayed a rock as big as one of the saltshakers. "Not to worry," she smiled. "And younger too."

Shannon gasped that fake but polite gasp so practiced among the set. "Good for you," she said, thinking: you dope. The ring, the lover, and the money will be gone within the year. All that will remain will be the wrinkles. They'll last forever. "We'll have to get together," she said, seeing that Pierre who was in front of the banquette with that I'm waiting look. Fuck him, she thought. Let him wait.

She finally took her place, and looked for Paul. It was already quarter past the appointed hour, and he was nowhere to be seen. Paul Barrons was never late. Time was money to him, as it was to most lawyers. Another dark-haired, fake-French, faggot waiter came over, this one Adonis-looking. She ordered a mineral water with lime, then crossed her legs and adjusted herself to the proper waiting pose. Taking a sip, she noticed Paul in the distance handing a business card to a black-dressed skinny who was wearing a Lacroix scarf and dripping with jewels. He bent to kiss the skinny's feminine paw, never really reaching it, and flashed a professional smile, knowing just how far to stretch it. The look on the skinny's face wasn't one a client gives a lawyer. Paul was hunting, Shannon determined quickly. She took another sip of water and waited patiently for him to finish with his prey. He eventually found his way and took his seat as all the turning heads dipped into their expensive entrees. Shannon finally realized why Paul liked Le Cirque.

"So, you think you'll get laid tonight?" she asked.

Paul sipped an amber drink, and grinned. The directness of her question didn't bother him. He was used to that from Shannon Fairchild. She was a direct woman, spoke what was on her mind, and took what she wanted to take. "A man's gotta live," he said.

"Careful. I hear she's had the clap."

He swizzled his drink and looked back across the room. "Really?"

"Caught it from her gardener."

"Thanks for the tip," he said, suddenly deflated. "Gotta have a damned background check to get screwed these days."

"Do you have the zoning studies?"

Right to business, as usual. He opened his thin case on the seat of the banquette and pulled out a manila folder. "Good news," he said. "The city is willing to do just about anything to get something going in that part of the city."

"Who did you talk to?"

"The deputy mayor for housing and economic development."

"Do we know him?"

"We do." Barrons pulled a business card out of the folder. "Seems those contributions you made are finally going to pay off."

Shannon glanced at the card and smiled. "And?" she asked, nodding a barely perceptible nod to someone off in the distance.

"And," Paul replied, "HizHonor said he'd consider endorsing any zoning changes we'd need along Jamaica Avenue. He said half the properties around there could be bulldozed and nobody would really give a damn anyway."

"His Honor. I'm sure some of his former business partners would like to know just how honorable he was. What about the borough president?"

"Macfarlane? Are you kidding? Just another price tag."

"How much?"

"Haven't gotten that far yet. The deputy mayor said he'd take care of Macfarlane if there were any problems, though."

The fake-French faggot waiter came over and Paul ordered a spinach salad and another amber drink with ice cubes. Shannon Fairchild ordered a cheeseburger, rare.

"Any ideas on value after the zoning changes?"

"Not yet. The strip is already zoned commercial, but it comes down to two things. The first is how big a block of property we can accumulate before we put the whole thing on the market. The second is how big a parking facility any new owners would be able to erect afterwards. A lot of people would be hesitant to take the subway into Jamaica, for anything. Has to have parking."

"What about prospective tenants?"

"Tough to say. There aren't many businesses that will go there without some pretty good incentives."

"Such as?"

"I haven't zeroed in on that yet. Just being able to keep their employees protected, I'd guess."

Shannon pulled a small leather planner from her purse and wrote something into it. "Let me look at the zoning requirements, and let's figure out how to proceed. I'd like to move on this as soon as possible. That fucking dealership is costing me."

"I'm surprised you held on to it this long. Is it still losing money?"

"A ton."

"You know," said Paul, "putting a deal of this magnitude together could take some time."

"More than a few months?"

"Could be substantially more if we run into snags. Can't you do anything to get the property producing for you in the meantime? Maybe get rid of that big dago you've got running the place?"

Shannon wagged her stately blonde head. "I don't know," she said, her frustration evident. "Now that Patty is out of school, she wants to take it on as a challenge and try to make it profitable. But, you know Patty. She's never been serious about anything in her life."

Paul put his folder away. "I know what you mean," he said. "Is she still dating that tennis pro, or has she gone back to ski instructors?"

Chapter 29... Hot Coffee

"So, how are things going with Henry?"

"Not well," Rita replied. "Things were bad enough, and now this thing with his nephew—it's just gone from bad to worse."

"How's the family taking it?"

"Pretty bad. They've always had problems with Andy, but no one ever thought he'd OD, or anything. It's just awful."

Morena paused, not knowing how far to press. "Is there anything you can do?"

"I put the family in touch with the city's support group hot line. Maybe that will help."

"I meant about the relationship."

"Oh. I don't know. Henry and I have been going in opposite directions for a while now. He's hot-to-trot at his firm, moving up the status ladder. You know the corporate routine. And I'm, you know, just a cop, not of the proper social standing."

Morena sipped his coffee, his eyes tracking a couple of dudes across the street as they pimp-rolled down the sidewalk, being bad. They had that looking for trouble look. He wiped his moustache as the punks moved up Jamaica Avenue, being badder. "You went to one of those fancy colleges, didn't you? You know how to play the status game."

"Yeah, I know how to play the game, but I don't have the proper pedigree."

"Pedigree?"

"Yeah, lineage, papers, you know, like a dog. I think Henry would be much happier if my family came from another part of the world. It would make it easier for him to win the corporate seal of approval."

The radio squawked their number, and Morena grabbed the handset. "Still staked out at the dealership," he said to what the dispatcher had asked. "Hard to tell. Maybe another hour or so."

"O'Shea?" he questioned, getting back to the point about the pedigree. "What's not corporate about that?"

"I think Henry would like it better if it was Feldstein, or Rosenbloom. But even if it was, I'm not sure I could ever be the obedient, adoring, social-butterfly wifey he wants me to be."

"Is that what he wants?"

"I'm sure he'd want me to stay home if we got married." She sipped her hot, bitter coffee. She was learning to like bitter coffee in Styrofoam cups. "That's what the little corporate wifeys do at his firm—stay home, and do aerobics, and worry about AIDS and stuff."

"Are you thinking about marriage?"

"We've talked about it."

"Why haven't you done it?"

"He hasn't asked me."

"What's holding him back?"

Contemplating, she adjusted her shades. The late afternoon sun was blinding, a huge, red fireball just above the horizon. She wiped the windshield with the back of her hand, smearing the grime rather than cleaning it. "This job," she answered after a while.

The tone of personal experience laced Morena's voice. "It can cause problems, now. Cost me a marriage, but I'm not sure that's your problem."

"What do you mean?"

"Listen, I shouldn't have said anything. It's really none of my business."

"No, I want to know."

"Well, sounds to me like he's hung up on some things that have nothing to do with whether he loves you, or not. If your pedigree is what's preventing him from popping the question, I think you gotta ask yourself if this is the right guy. But, hey, like I said, it's really none of my business." Morena ended the thought by slurping more coffee and gazing through the windshield.

Rita took the hint. "How long has he been in there?" she asked, changing the subject.

Morena checked his notepad and looked at the clock. "Couple of hours."

"What do you suppose he's doing?"

"I don't know, buying and selling cars, I guess. Isn't that what a car wholesaler does?"

Rita looked the business card she'd found on the floor of the Green Lantern bar. All that was written on it was Sonny's Wholesale Autos, and a phone number, no other name, no address. "How many dealerships do you figure this guy does business with? He's got an awful lot of cars parked in that yard of his."

"Beats me," Morena replied. "Most of them were junk, though. Did you notice that? I only saw three or four that looked like they were worth anything."

"Maybe he sells them for parts."

"Maybe," said Morena.

Boom boom, ta ta boom. Boom boom boom ta ta boom, ta ta boom boom, ta boom boom.

"Look, there goes that floozy girlfriend of his."

"I'm looking," said Morena. "Goddamn, I'm looking."

Rita smiled. "You wouldn't know what to do with it, Morena. And even if you did, at your age it would probably kill you."

"Yeah, but what a way to go."

Chapter 30... The Two-Ton Donut

He got up early and looked in the mirror. "Things are okay, Carmen buddy," he said, trying to convince himself. He brushed his teeth vigorously and checked to see if they held their normal gleam. Debating whether to shave, he thought: the hell with it. He was fine the way he was. The only important thing on the old agenda today was a trip to the dealership to pick up his draw check. It was the fifteenth of the month. Everything was fine.

Flipping the light switch in the hallway with the stove and the refrigerator in it, he stopped momentarily to check for any unsavory cockroach parts left over from one of Rudolph's midnight snacks. Seeing none, he opened the refrigerator and grabbed himself a Coke, being that he was out of coffee. He almost grabbed a beer instead, but that would have been reckless, and he'd been reckless enough the past few weeks. Being reckless was exciting, all right, but the rush evaporated quickly, and it left him covered with a residue of worry. He had to stop participating in those little games they played at the dealership. The other guys seemed to thrive on it, shaking off any concern the way a dog shakes water off its coat. With him, the anxiety penetrated to the bone, making him cold and clammy even on the warmest days. He felt a shiver run up his spine just thinking about it. No, he said to himself as he spooned out some cat food, no more blind runs, no more taking money in envelopes, no more crazy porno parties.

He couldn't get that Sunday scene out of his head. He'd been only too happy to hang out at Big Tony's apartment and drink Heinekens like some hot shit, and he could still feel the heavy-handed slaps on his back as Big Tony thanked him for a job well done. However, no one mentioned what the job was. It was the trip, or the package delivery, or something equally vague, and not even that incredibly daffy, porn star stripper said anything about it—if she knew anything, the airhead. As far as he knew, he'd delivered a car to an address on Long Island, and he'd been paid a thousand bucks for doing it. He didn't ask, and the more he thought about it, that was fine with him too, especially after the other guests began arriving.

They filed in like it was some sort of club, helping themselves to drinks and socializing as if they'd just come from a Sunday matinee on Broadway. But these indelicate creatures were hardly the theater crowd. Not many guys with razor scars on their cheek went to the theater, and women who made movies called Oral Gang Bang—and were proud of it—didn't sip wine and eat salmon canapés at Schubert's with their pinkies extended.

As Rudolph licked his cat food, Carmen thought: that had to be the most bizarre group of people he'd ever laid eyes on. It made those weird, spiky-haired punks from the Village look like grammar school kids. Those punks were harmless. The people in Big Tony's condo weren't, and through it all, Big Tony acted like a proverbial prince, gracious to an extreme, generous to excess, even to the guests who seemed to be less than outgoing, like that blue-black Amazon, Lawanda. She had to be the meanest-looking woman alive, thought Carmen, if she was a woman at all. Just thinking about her made him shiver. The veins in her arms and neck bulged like a construction worker's, and she could have undoubtedly beaten the crap out of any man there, if she'd wanted to, no problem. The fact that no one paid attention to her didn't help her less-than-cheery disposition. Instead, everyone was paying attention to the slutty porn star, who was busy getting sauced on shots of tequila.

Boom boom, ta ta boom boom, ta ta boom. The word circulated that after everyone had arrived—who knew what other strange characters were due to show up—everyone was going to watch Hollow Throat, which was Holly's—or Aida's—new movie. She said she preferred to be called by her real name, as if she were some sort of f'n diva, but no one cared. They just wanted to see how talented she was. It was going to be like some sort of screening. Then, when she was ready—and drunk, Carmen figured—supposedly, she was going to do her latest act, the one she did at the Pussycat Club, the strip bar in Manhattan that featured porno stars as part of its lovely lineup of pussy-flashers. Carmen had two beers, and left. It was too strange a scene, and he was as nervous as an eight-year-old in the principal's office.

"Where ya goin'?" one of the strangers asked when Carmen got up to leave. He remembered how the stranger put his arm around him like they were best buddies, and pointed to the white baggie on the coffee table nearby. "Do a line, why don'tcha?"

"Not for me," said Carmen. Feeling the hard lump under the guy's arm, he figured it wasn't a pocketful of rocks.

"Do a line, then get in line." The guy laughed at his own poetry. "Holly's gonna get us all off, and we're gonna see who can last the longest."

Did that mean what he thought it meant? What kind of people...? "Sorry, gotta go," said Carmen, and he made a quick exit. Still, the overwhelming curiosity of whether the scene had actually happened stayed with him the rest of that day, and since then, actually, the thought never far from visualization. Holly didn't really.... Did she? All of them? Get real. What the hell was Big Tony into?

Carmen shook himself from his pornographic funk. It was time to go. He hopped into the shower, and into his favorite day-off jeans, and was gone. He made it to the dealership just as it opened, and made a beeline for his cubbyhole. No check! It was probably too early. He meandered over to Chita's desk to make sure.

Their conversation was short, and cool, as every conversation between them had been lately, and Carmen felt his sporadic attempts at romance were near completion even though success in that venue was far from being achieved. The checks weren't ready, but she'd call him when they were, she said; be ready in about an hour, probably; thank you very much, okay, fine.

Needing to waste some time, he wandered down to The Pizza Palace and parked himself at a wobbly table to read a newspaper he'd stolen from the service department waiting room. The coffee was good, and the Daily News was boring, and after getting tired of reading about bad things, he got up for another cup of coffee, and a donut. As he returned to his table, Patty Fairchild bounced in like the little cheerleader she probably once was. Noticing him, she stepped away from the counter with her check and her breakfast. It was almost eleven, and she was just reporting to work, it seemed. Must be nice, thought Carmen.

Surprisingly, instead of going to the register to pay, she came over to the table. "Mind if I join you?"

"Help yourself," Carmen replied, recalling his little performance review six days earlier. What now? Bamboo shoots under the fingernails? He lifted his coffee off the wobbly table so that it wouldn't spill as she sat down, and waited in suspense while the smell of the first pizzas of the day wafted past his nose.

She dunked her teabag a few times, and said, "What was in the envelope?"

The donut inside Carmen's stomach suddenly hardened, and it felt like an anchor. "What envelope?" he asked, averting his eyes and looking into the floor.

"The one you took from Big Tony last Friday. I've been meaning to ask you all week." She sipped the tea carefully, and waited, continuing to dunk the teabag.

His mind raced. "I don't remember," he said weakly.

She sipped some more tea, holding her ice-blue gaze on him. "I'm smarter than that," she said calmly.

"Than what?"

"Listen, Kid Madrid, don't treat me like the rest of those assholes do. Only a fool wouldn't see what's going on, and I'm no fool. Now, what was in the envelope?"

He felt that flush an honest person feels when he or she is consciously telling a barefaced lie. "I don't remember taking any envelope," Carmen replied. "It was probably just some papers, or something." He looked down again, and blew into his coffee. Damn it, her eyes looked right through him.

Patty put the lid back on her cup. "Okay," she said. "You want to go down with the rest of them, that's up to you. For some reason, I got the impression you were smarter." She reached into her purse, dropped a five on the table next to her check, which totaled only a buck forty-nine, and left.

Carmen picked up his check along with hers, and paid them both with her money. What the hell did she mean, go down? Fucking donut was like a landmine down there.

Chapter 31... And That's That

He leaned over and gave Patty a quick, emotionless kiss on the forehead. "I have to go," he whispered. His name was Carlo.

Patty moaned a sleepy, "Ummm," and pulled the sheet over her naked shoulder.

Carlo hit the shower, turning the knob to cold and letting the water cascade over his body. It felt good, little cold needles piercing the heat of his sunburned back. He scolded himself for playing so many sets with his shirt off, but the burn would darken in another day or so, and the girls would love it. He took the bar of fancy soap and lathered his muscled stomach, then reached down and foamed up his down there. He felt it respond despite the fact that it was suffering from combat fatigue, a result of the sexual Olympics from the night before. That's it old boy, he thought proudly, never say die. Like his back, it would be okay in a day or so, and just like the tan, the girls would love it. They always did.

He hopped from the shower and dressed quickly. He didn't want to be late for his first lesson, and especially not with Lisa. His head filled with images of her young body as she chased down his forehands and stretched for his backhands. Yes, sir, Lisa deserved a full hour. Maybe he'd throw in another hour on the house.

He shoved his racket into his bag, noticing Patty's trifold sports wallet sitting on the dresser. He glanced at Patty; she was out like a light. Keeping his back to the bed, he undid the Velcro strap. The first bill was a fifty, and he crumpled it into his hand. She'd never miss it. He kissed her on the forehead again, causing her to growl softly in that limbo land between sleep and consciousness.

"What time is it?" she said sleepily, putting her arms around his neck. "You were a tiger last night."

"Nine o'clock," he said, thinking of Lisa and visualizing himself behind her, feeling the curve of her young ass against his loins. "I'm going to be late."

Patty sat up suddenly. "Nine o'clock? Shit!" She jumped from the bed. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"Get an alarm clock," said Carlo. "That way something else can go off in this apartment besides you." He slung his nylon bag over his shoulder, and almost sprinted out the door. Lisa and her ass were waiting.

In a rush of her own now, Patty looked in the mirror, and said, "Ugh." She needed a shower, but that would add at least half an hour to her arrival, and mother hated it when she was late. Mother was like that: fastidious, punctual, and anal, but there was no sense in ticking her off. Patty pulled a brush through her hair, ran some lipstick, and left as-is. Luckily, it wasn't far from her cozy little fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-month one-bedroom on East 82nd to Paul Barrons' office on Lexington and 63rd. She'd just go to the meeting, and come back afterwards to shower up. So she'd be late to the dealership. Who cared?

She took the steps of her converted 82nd Street mansion two at a time. "Good morning Mrs. Billingham," said Patty, ignoring the look from her neighbor who was letting her puffy little poodle pee on the pansies in the flower box.

Even at nine in the morning Mrs. Billingham was fully dressed and made up. "Rushing about again, are we?" she asked disapprovingly.

Piss on you, Mrs. Billingham, and your pissing little toy dog too. There are other things to worry about besides your approval. Now that was something about which she and her mother wholeheartedly agreed. She flagged a cab, and was in front of Paul Barrons' building in ten minutes.

"Would you like some coffee?" the young receptionist asked as Patty took a seat in the waiting area of Storrs Sterling & Barrons.

"Tea," said Patty.

The receptionist returned a minute later. "I brought you a large. Looks like you need it."

"Gee, thanks," said Patty. Actually, she did need it, but it was coffee, and she'd asked for tea. Watching the cinched, neat receptionist return to her desk, Patty wondered if she had something stuck up her butt. Probably a Smith bitch, she guessed, fulfilling her aspirations of being a professional go-fer. Surely, Mrs. Billingham would have approved, though. She was about to ask for tea when Barrons' voice squawked from the speakerphone.

"Is she here yet?"

Patty held up her hand and headed for the thickly carpeted hallway that always smelled like pipe tobacco. She knew the way.

"You're late," Shannon barked softly as soon as Patty entered the office, but it was a bark nonetheless.

"Sorry," said Patty, not meaning it, but there was no sense getting off on the wrong foot on purpose. That would come naturally. Barrons was seated behind a huge mahogany desk, which, Patty realized, looked a lot like Big Tony's.

"Something funny?" he asked.

"No, just thinking about something else," said Patty.

Shannon started right in. "Clearly you are thinking about something else. This is a business meeting, for God's sake. Couldn't you have worn something decent?"

Well, thought Patty, mother was being her usual self. "Is that what we're here to talk about?"

"Can we get started?" Barrons asked before it got ugly. Nothing would get accomplished if it went there. Both Fairchilds stiffened, and Barrons came right out with it. "Patricia, we've decided to sell the dealership. Actually, we're going to sell the land underneath the dealership."

Patty took a few seconds, and looked first at her mother, who looked away, then at Barrons, who did the same. "We've decided? Who the fuck is we?"

Barrons was prepared. "Now Patricia...." he began.

"You know, I really hate it when you use that condescending little tone with me, Paul. Now answer my question. Who is we?"

"We, is me," Shannon said boldly. "I've decided to sell the dealership."

"Would you mind telling me why?"

Shannon was like dry ice, only colder. "It's very simple. Selling the property would produce infinitely more income for us than any profit that dealership could ever create. It's a sound business decision." She fingered her tight whirl of champagne hair, and looked away. She had spoken.

"What difference will it make if you sell it, or hang on to it? It's not like you need the money," Patty said.

"I'm not here to discuss the whys and wherefores of my decision," Shannon replied. "I've thought this whole thing through, and it's the best thing to do."

"And I don't have anything to say about it?"

"What would you have to say about it? It's not your property."

"Yes, it is!" said Patty, her voice elevated. "Or maybe you've forgotten that Daddy put half that dealership in my name when he took it over. He said that dealership was my college money. Now do you remember?"

"You're out of college," Shannon shot back. "And besides, we never needed that money to put you through school... thank God."

"And exactly what do you mean by that crack, Mother?"

"It's dirty money. That whole place is dirty."

"Then why did you buy it?"

"You're father bought it. It was just another one of his harebrained decisions. We should never have had anything to do with that place. I'll never understand why he had such a sentimental attachment to it."

"And because he had a big heart, you want to dump it? That doesn't make any sense."

"It's a financial sink hole."

Trying to control her emotions, Patty said, "We can make it profitable."

Shannon looked at Barrons, who was busy unbending a paperclip. "Paul?"

Barrons looked up reluctantly, shifting his gaze back and forth. "Actually...." he began, stalling.

"Yes?" Patty said sharply.

"Actually, some of our investments haven't done as well as we had anticipated." His eyebrows knit themselves into a single, dark line. "The truth of the matter is that we need to sell the dealership in order to get out from under."

Patty looked at her mother, who looked away. "I see," she said, feeling their embarrassment. "How bad off are we?"

"Not that bad," Barrons replied. "But we need to cut our losses, and we need cash. I'm afraid it has to go."

Not wanting to seem unsympathetic, Patty measured her words carefully. "What if I decide not to go along?"

Barrons measured his words as well. "Then, as the executor of your father's will, and as specified therein, I would act as the deciding vote in any business decision that cannot be worked out otherwise."

"And you would vote to sell," Patty concluded quickly.

Barrons knew which side his bread was buttered on. "Yes, I would," he said just as quickly.

"And you don't think that dealership can produce a profit either, do you?"

"Not enough of one, and not quickly enough." A hint of a smirk crossed his face.

"You don't take me seriously, do you? All this is a sham, just a show to display some meaningless concern so as not to upset my pet project, isn't it? Isn't it?" Patty demanded when no reply came forth.

"I don't understand why you want to waste your time at that place," Shannon responded.

"I'm not wasting my time. I'm trying to do something with my life, to accomplish something."

The conversation morphed into one they'd had a thousand times before. "You're wasting your time," Shannon preached. "Why don't you take the good life? There's plenty of opportunity out there for you to do something different."

"Like marry a rich plastic surgeon and pop babies out of my belly on some sort of schedule?"

"It would be better than playing house with all those gigolos you date."

Barrons' head fell into his hands.

"Oh, like you didn't after Daddy died! Besides, my life is my business, Mother, not yours!"

Shannon sighed heavily. "If you want to play in that sandbox, young lady, I guess there isn't much I can do to stop you."

"No, there isn't," Patty said defiantly.

"And there isn't much you can do to stop me, either. I've decided to sell, and that's that." Shannon's words punctuated the air like the bang of a gavel.

"No, that's not that." Patty slammed the coffee down, splashing it all over Barrons' desk, and stormed from the office.

Barrons pulled a couple of tissues from a drawer, and said, "What the hell do you think she means by that?"

Shannon casually pulled a compact from her purse and examined her face. "I have no idea," she answered.

Chapter 32... Windex and Bagels

Watching her dust the plant stand for the second time in fifteen minutes, Henry said, "You've already cleaned that," but she wiped and scrubbed anyway, ignoring him as if she hadn't heard a thing. Pinching some withered leaves off a spider plant, Rita put it back on the stand and moved along with her spray bottle to the French windows that opened to the humid New York Harbor air over trendy Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights. She sprayed the Windex liberally, the acrid ammonia smell mixing with the aroma of fresh bagels floating up from the Knish-Knosh a few doors up on Montague. The smell of fresh bagels was always strong on Saturday mornings as breakfast goers revved up for their weekend activities. Rita was already revved up, mentally as well as physically. Her case notes were like photographic plates in her head, and she reviewed them for the umpteenth time as she sprayed the windows. Henry went back to his work.

Something didn't seem right. Morena hadn't said anything, but surely he'd noticed it also. Very few cars—as in hardly any—went in and out of Sonny Olanzo's wholesale yard in South Ozone Park. You'd think cars and trucks would be motoring in and out of there all the time, but every time she and Hector had watched the yard, which numbered three now, only a few went in, and the same ones came out. She didn't know much about the wholesale car business, but something seemed wrong with that picture.

Then, there was the part about Sonny's customers, or, to put it another way, his lack of customers. Again, every time she and Hector had followed Sonny and his trampy girlfriend, they went to the big dealership on Jamaica Avenue that sold those expensive cars, and nowhere else. Rita wondered how many Lincolns and Jaguars they sold in that part of town. People in and around Jamaica didn't have that kind of money, and chances were that very few people from Manhattan would go there to buy a car. Rich people didn't want to worry about their trade-in being stolen while they shopped, and the ritzy dealerships were in Manhattan, or across the river in Jersey. Something was wrong with that picture, too.

In addition, Sonny never looked at any cars when he visited the dealership. He went inside and disappeared, while all the salesmen came out and hung around his girlfriend. Wouldn't a car wholesaler be kicking tires and raising hoods? Sonny never did that.

She heard the phone ring, and Henry brought it to her. "Hector," he said, a trace of irritation evident in his voice.

Rita balanced the phone on her shoulder. "Yeah."

"The background reports came in on our wholesaler friend."

"And?"

"And you'll never guess who he is."

"What'dya mean, who he is? Who is he?"

"He's a movie star, and so is his girlfriend?"

"A movie star?"

"Well, sort of. He's retired, supposedly, but the chick still makes 'em. She's got one playing on Times Square right now. It's called Meat Eater."

"Porno movies?"

"Right."

"How'd you find out?"

"Most of the big wholesalers are out on the Island or in Jersey, so I called on a friend in Jersey City. We trade favors now and then. Anyway, he called on a couple of wholesalers, and they knew about Sonny all right—and his girlfriend. He said that's all they could talk about."

Rita contemplated for a second. "That explains why the salesmen follow her around like puppy dogs. What else?"

"His real name isn't Sonny Olanzo. No surprise there. He was known as Peter Meter when he made the porns."

"That's not his real name, is it?"

"No. It's Dario Guerrero, a.k.a. Juanito Maritnez, a.k.a. Franco Prado."

"He's got a sheet?"

"Yeah. All small time stuff. Checks, possession, one grand theft auto. Did six months at Lorton in D.C."

"What about her?"

"As best we can figure, she's Cuban, up from Miami, and she's legal. Her real name is Aida Sambrano. Still has her green card. Vice has some connections in the porn business around town, and that's the only other name she's ever been known by besides her movie name."

"Which is?"

"Holly Hollow."

"Charming."

"I think so."

"You would. Anything come back from the lab on whether Clint had that card on him at the Green Lantern?"

"Inconclusive, no prints, no unusual or significant fibers, but that card is still our only lead. It might turn out to be a dead end." Morena paused for a moment. His tone changed. "How are things there, around the apartment?"

Rita looked at Henry, who acted as if he wasn't listening. He was, of course, and she knew it. "Okay," was all she said, but Henry's head came up when she put the phone down.

"I wish he'd stop asking questions about us."

"He's just worried about me, that's all. He thinks I've been under a lot of strain lately." At least someone cared, she thought to herself, and Henry must have read it.

"Let's do something," he said. "You don't get a lot of Saturdays off."

"Like what?" she asked as she continued her cleaning.

"I don't know. How about a movie?"

"Want to go see a porno movie?"

Henry's eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

Rita shrugged. "It was just a thought." Morena's statement about the card being a dead end gnawed on her. Something told her it was no dead end. It was a gut feeling though, hardly based on the evidence, which was like sand sifting through her fingers.

Henry went to her and put his arms around her. "We could rent a tape," he said with a gleam in his eye.

The look on his face wasn't one she wanted to see just then. "It's not that," she said coolly, putting a hand into his chest. "One of our suspects makes porno movies, and, well, one is playing on Times Square."

"The job," Henry lashed out. "I should have known."

Rita picked up her spray bottle, not doing a good job of controlling the cool edge in her voice. "Don't you have something else to do today? You haven't talked to your brother all week. He probably needs you right now."

Henry buried his face into whatever extremely important work he had to do on a Saturday morning. "He'll call when he needs me."

Rita dropped the bottle, tossing the dirty rag next to it.

"Where are you going?" he asked as she brushed her hair and put on a pair of running shoes.

"Out. I don't feel like being here right now."

He went to her, and tried to put his arms around her again. "You're going to that dealership again, aren't you?"

Rita looked at him, and wondered much longer they would be together. She'd never asked herself that question before, but she knew instantly that she'd be asking it again. "Yes," she answered, the brightness coming through the French windows reflecting in her eyes.

Henry kissed her, lingering, but elicited no reaction. "I love you," he said.

She put her arms around him and squeezed, hoping somehow the pressure would prevent them from drifting apart, but the hold broke easily. "I love you too," she said. "I have to go."

"I know you do," he said, and he let her go. "When will you be back?"

"Later," she said, having no idea.

She took the number 3 express and got off at 42nd Street, figuring she could switch there. She checked a subway map, and hopped the F train all the way to the Parsons Boulevard stop in Jamaica, checking her little spiral notebook repeatedly along the way. Besides Sonny Olanzo, there were several people listed there that she needed to know more about, primary among them being the big round guy Sonny went to see at the dealership. From a distance, he looked like he owned the place. Then, there was the skinny white chick that drove the yellow Corvette. She, too, acted like she owned the place. As the doors to the F train chimed and split open, she concluded that she needed a much closer look.

Chapter 33... Jamaica Avenue

Rita stirred her strawberry shake, thinking that if America was a melting pot, then Jamaica Avenue must be the residue that stuck to the side. Like a painting, the street was a study in contrasts and colors. If it were music, the mingling of sounds would form a strange symphony of discordant notes that blended into a single refrain and repeated endlessly, like the dull hum of a machine that never stopped. Indeed, the noises, and smells, and colors of the street were like her strawberry shake. At first, the brightness of the strawberry syrup stood out garishly against the white of the ice cream, but once blended it turned into a single, amorphous mixture, pleasurable, but cheap.

Such was Jamaica Avenue, a cacophony of dissonant cultures, mostly black American, but with pockets of West Indian, Puerto Rican, Indian, Bangladeshi, Central American, and African—all dark and swarthy races who replaced the white enclaves of Jews, Italians, and Irish who left before the crack epidemic took hold that now threatened the lives of those who managed to survive there. Rita watched as two black girls passed before her in succession.

The first, perhaps twenty-five, was skinny as a straw except for her breasts, which were huge. She walked along, glassy eyed in the sunlight, one breast cradled cozily in the crook of one arm while she sucked her thumb. She was oblivious, undeniably high as a kite, deaf to the calls of the black and Latino men who were shouting obscene come-ons from their cars.

The second girl, seventeen at the most, was pushing a wheelchair down the street, containing what could have been a corpse. For a second, Rita wondered if that was actually the case. The body in the wheelchair looked like an open-mouthed mummy, and nobody gave it a second look.

Strange, weird, odd, peculiar, bizarre—there weren't enough adjectives to describe it, and in the middle of it all, half a block down on the avenue beyond Parsons Boulevard, the salesmen leaned against the fence in front of Fairchild MotorCars, smoking cigarettes and ogling women as they passed.

Rita finished her shake, tossing her cup onto an overflowing trashcan as she eased through the throng of people doing their Saturday shopping. The sun seemed especially bright in the cloudless sky, and she paused at one of the endless sidewalk displays to look at a two-dollar pair of sunglasses. The voice of the dark, moon-faced shopkeeper rose above some rhythmic bongo music, his accent indistinct. He could have been from anywhere.

"De glasses, dey loook goood wid yoou red hair, yes?"

Rita looked into the little mirror on the display. "Yes," she said, handing him a couple of bills. "Tax?" she questioned.

"Eees okay," said the moon-faced man, waving her off.

She donned the glasses, thinking what a contrast she was to the people around her. The only other Caucasians in sight were a couple of sales dudes leaning on the fence at the dealership, and the skinny blonde who came out of the showroom to herd them back inside. Curiosity got the best of her and she crossed the street, dodging an old Chevy with Latin music and the stale smell of incense and marijuana coming from its open windows. Rita ambled onto the lot, and, looking over the neon frames of her new glasses, eyed a snazzy, new '85 Camaro with dual exhausts.

"Do you like it?" the skinny blonde asked.

Caught off guard, Rita hadn't anticipated the approach. "I'm just looking," she replied. They locked eyes, blue on blue.

"No problem," said the skinny blonde. "I'm Patty Fairchild."

Rita shook her hand, and glanced at the sign on top of the building, her unspoken question shooting between them telepathically.

"My father," said Patty.

"Oh," said Rita. So, that explained it.

"Let me get you a salesperson." Patty turned quickly.

"That's okay. I was just...." She was gone. Rita heard her calling for a salesman through the open doors of the showroom. A young salesman at the front desk jumped to attention, and Patty disappeared into the bowels of the showroom. Rita tried to act disinterested as the salesman came toward her, his cocky little strut painfully obvious.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Carmen—Carmen Madrid, but you can call me Kid." Smugly, he flipped open a pair of black glasses and hid behind them.

Rita adjusted her own. "Rita," she said, shaking his hand.

"Hiya, Rita. Love your hair."

This should be good, she thought. A real Casanova.

Chapter 34... Blood

Tommy Lee looked into the plastic garbage bag, recoiling even though he knew what was in it. "Perfect," he said. "Say man, where the fuck did you find a motherfuckin' cow?"

"It's a calf," said Clyde. "Not a cow."

"Calf, cow, horse, who gives a fuck? Motherfuckin' thing's as big as a motherfuckin' car. Where'd you get it?"

"It weren't easy. We stole it."

"You stole a motherfuckin' cow?"

"Calf."

"Okay. You stole a motherfuckin' calf?"

"Just the head."

"How'd you get it off?"

"We cut it off."

"I can see that, motherfucker. With what?"

"A motherfuckin' chain saw. Ruined a motherfuckin' suit doin' it, too. You owe me."

Lawanda pushed Tommy Lee aside. "Let me see this motherfuckin' thing." She reached in and pulled the calf's head almost clear of the bag, dropping it back with a slimy little splash. "I want the motherfuckin' thing nailed to his door, the motherfucker."

Clyde said, "Can't we just leave it on his doorstep? This fuckin thing's startin' to stink, man."

Lawanda grabbed Clyde by the throat, the blood from the calf's head smearing on his black skin. "Put it on his motherfuckin' door, or I swear to motherfuckin' God I'll do it myself, 'cept it'll be your head on that door instead of this motherfuckin' cow."

"Calf."

"Handle it, motherfucker." Lawanda wiped her bloody hand on his jacket.

Clyde turned away, sickened. "Where is this motherfuckin' place?"

Lawanda handed him a slip of paper. "The Blue Moon Social Club," she said. "216 Mott Street."

"What if there's someone there? That neighborhood ain't exactly deserted."

"Then do whatever you have to do. You got it, blood?"

Chapter 35... The Test Drive

Carmen adjusted the rearview mirror, clicked his seat belt, and checked both ways before pulling out of the new car lot. The street was snarled, and pedestrians were swarming all over the place as music boomed from storefronts. He eased the red Camaro through the smell of grilled meat on Jamaica Avenue, and glanced at the dashboard clock: four o'clock. In two, maybe three hours, all this would vanish as if it shrank into a neat little pouch and got carried away. The streets would be almost bare by nine, with the shopkeepers and working people of the neighborhood at home in front of their TVs by then. It would get crowded again toward midnight, however, when the nocturnal people slithered out for their Saturday night activities. He had two hours to close this deal. It was no problem. He was Kid Madrid, and he was hot. He looked across the front seat at his passenger-slash-customer-slash-maggot, and he took the word maggot from his mental description. He made small talk as they waited for the traffic to move.

"So, you live around here?"

The cheap sunglasses hid Rita's roving eyes. "No, just visiting," she replied, being careful with her story.

"Yeah? Who?"

"A friend."

"You're visiting a friend and you're looking at cars?"

"I need a car, and he told me to come here. Is that okay?" She looked over her glasses.

"Oh. Yeah, sure it's okay." So much for small talk. Might as well start qualifying. "Do you plan on trading another car?"

"No."

"Oh." He was tempted to ask if she had the money. It wouldn't have surprised him. Besides the cool glasses and the L.L. Bean safari shorts, she was wearing a man's Polo golf shirt. Looked like there was a guy in the picture. "Is anyone else going to buy this car with you? I mean, does anyone else have to look at it with you?"

Rita pulled back a handful of blowing hair. "If you mean: do I need to get approval from my macho boyfriend, or something, the answer is no."

Oops, thought Carmen. He'd get back to qualifying later. Talk about the car. Get her to like the car. "Now, this model is a powerful little number, the most powerful Camaro Chevy makes. It's a Z24, V-8 engine, the works," he said, pushing one of the radio buttons. "You'd look really hot riding around in this baby."

"Z28."

"Huh?"

"It's a Z28," Rita corrected. "A Z24, if I'm not mistaken, is a V-6 Cavalier. You've got your Z numbers confused."

Carmen adjusted his driving shades as if doing so would hide his embarrassment. "Yeah, right. Sorry. You're right. It's a Z28, dual overhead cam, V-8 engine, 230 horsepower."

"Two hundred and fifteen."

"Huh?"

"215 horsepower. The Corvette generates 230 horses for 1985 model, the Z28 puts out 215. That is, if it has the small block V-8. What is it, 5.0 liters?"

"Huh? Right. That's it. 5.0 liters."

The traffic moved on the avenue. Thank God, thought Carmen. He stepped on the gas and felt the vibrations from the throaty exhausts. A moment later, he slammed on the brakes when the line of cars stopped suddenly.

"Take a right."

"Huh?"

"Take a right," Rita instructed. "Down Merrick, then back over on Linden Boulevard."

"Huh?"

"You don't want to sit here all day, do you?"

"No, right. I mean, yes, fine." Carmen did as he was told. Jesus, he thought, this chick knew her way around. They rode silently for some time, the only noise being the deep rumble from the guts of the Camaro. At the intersection of Linden and Sutphin Boulevards, he finally spoke again, but tentatively. "We have to turn here," he said, eyeing a strange-looking black dude with a white beard who was banging a tambourine in front of a red plywood storefront.

"Why?" Rita asked, also checking out the shirtless weirdo. They were in front of The Right Reverend Bob's Holy Interdenominational Church.

"My managers don't like it when we get too far south. Some of those neighborhoods aren't too good."

"Why don't you go up another few blocks and take the Van Wyck north. It's probably the quickest way back with all this traffic. I need to get back, okay?"

"Sure thing," Carmen said. He turned the wheel and gave her a quizzical look. "I thought you said you were just visiting."

"I am."

"Are you from around here?"

"No, not really."

"Then how do you know so much about these streets? I mean, seems like you know them like the back of your hand. And how do you know so much about cars? Christ, I mean, gee whiz, you know more than I do, and I'm the salesman." Rita just smiled; knowing car makes and models was part of police work. "You could be our first woman salesperson," Carmen went on, visualizing his lily-white passenger all made up and strutting her stuff across the shiny showroom floor. What a sight that would be.

"You don't have any female salespeople?" Rita asked as they approached the Van Wyck Expressway.

"Not a one," Carmen answered as he gunned the Camaro.

"Let's get back to the showroom," she said quickly. "Maybe we can make a deal on this car. I like it."

"Cool," said Carmen, and his chest swelled. Kid Madrid had done it again. What a salesman.

Chapter 36... Billy's Dirty

"Damn!" said Rita as she looked down the avenue. She'd lost sight of the Lincoln. Then, she spotted a beat-up red Chevy coming up the street. A cab! She held her arm up, but the driver pretended not to see her. "Jerk!" she said, and she stepped into the street, and the cab squealed to a stop. She didn't wait for the cabby to say whether or not he was in service. "Drive!" she yelled, jumping into the back seat.

"Wherrre?" the bewildered cabby asked.

"I'll tell you where to go," she yelled as she flashed her badge. She pointed down the avenue. "Find the black Lincoln, and follow it. Hurry!"

The cabby grinned and gunned the old Chevy, sending her flying into the back of the seat. He turned and flashed a yellow smile. "Just like de movies, yes?"

"Yeah," she said, holding on for dear life. "Just like the movies. Now find that Lincoln!"

The cabby was good, whipping around cars, squealing tires, honking at pedestrians; she was tempted to ask him to slow down, but he was having too much fun. Then, suddenly, right in front of them! "There!" she shouted. "Do you see it? Hurry!"

The cabby turned, his face beaming. "Just like da movies," he said again as he settled in two cars behind the Lincoln. He reached over and dropped the arm on the meter. "My name es Thaabiti," he said, reaching back and putting his hand out.

"Rita O'Shea," she said, shaking it.

"Ees a bad guy, yes?" he asked, pointing to the Lincoln.

"Yes. A very bad guy."

Thaabiti nodded and followed the Lincoln as it turned south on Woodhaven Boulevard toward the Belt Parkway. He settled into a comfortable pose.

Rita sat back and checked her purse, thinking they might have to stop at a bank machine somewhere if this turned out to be a long ride. Then, as the Lincoln did a quick swerve and passed another car, she wondered exactly where they were headed. Thaabiti swerved as well, being careful to stay a few car lengths back. He seemed to have it all under control.

"You're a good driver," she said. "Where are you from?"

"Guinea-Bissau," said Thaabiti, adjusting his visor. "West Africa."

Rita nodded, and shielded her eyes from the huge fireball hanging over the horizon. The Lincoln was cruising along at a comfortable pace, heading straight into it, it seemed. It looked like it could be a while.

"Can I have some paper?" she asked, pointing to the stick-on pad suctioned to the windshield.

"Anything for a pretty woman," said Thaabiti, handing a couple of sheets over his shoulder. His eyes danced in the rearview mirror.

The first thing she wrote down was slimy. The place was definitely slimy—except for Carmen, she thought surprisingly. She'd actually grown to like him in the two-and-a-half hours they'd spent together, and he didn't turn out to be the smarmy jerk she'd thought him to be when he first approached. It was all a façade, she determined quickly. He was really a nice kid, simply trying to make a living, and a pretty good salesman actually, although he was trying a little too hard to be cool. It was a macho thing for him. He said that someday he was going to own the place.

It wasn't easy blowing him off at the end the way she did. The poor kid was sure he'd sold another car, and she would have let him down easier, except that the boss man, Big Tony, was leaving. Her instincts had told her all along that he was the one to watch, especially after what Carmen had said about him, but what she'd seen with her own eyes confirmed it. When Big Tony got into that Lincoln, she jumped up and said, "Thanks a lot Carmen. I lost track of the time and I gotta go. I'll be back, okay?" Carmen looked crestfallen, but he was polite. Any of the other sales jerks would have said something smart. She made notes on the other characters while they were fresh in her memory.

First, there was the skinny sales manager: Patty Fairchild. Carmen didn't say much about her, except that, in his opinion, she didn't know squat about cars and the only reason she was sales manager was because her mom owned the dealership. Rita made a note about that, too: Find out who mom is.

Next, she listed the other two salesmen with whom Carmen seemed pretty tight. The first was the black guy, Delmo, in the smart suit. She wrote it down: Delmo—flashy black salesman. Then, there was the sleazy white guy with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. She wrote: Billy something—wouldn't trust him as far as he could spit. Carmen went to him whenever there was a question he couldn't answer. Some mentor, she thought, and she remembered the cross-eyed look that came her way when she'd asked if it was okay if she paid cash.

"Sure," Carmen had said. "We got customers that do it all the time."

"Really? What do I have to do to make sure the transaction goes okay?"

Carmen looked confused. If he wasn't, it was a good act. "What'dya mean, goes okay?"

"You know," she said, winking.

"No... I don't," he said innocently. "You just come in with the money."

"Why don't you ask your friend over there about the forms?"

"The forms?"

"Yeah, the forms. Ask him, he'll know."

Carmen did, and came back. "Billy said we're not allowed to take cash in amounts over $10,000. Otherwise we have to report it to the IRS. He said you'd have to convert the cash to a cashier's check before you bought the car. Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," she answered. She remembered Billy's piercing glare as he puffed nervously on his cigarette. He tried to hide his paranoia, but it wasn't difficult to detect, especially when he made his way up to the platform and huddled with Big Tony. She'd done a good job of pretending not to notice when they both turned around and looked at her, but she'd noticed, all right. She'd noticed everything. Rita made a note: Billy's dirty.

Finally, she made another note: Check with DMV—How many title transfers from the dealership to Sonny? She gave the pen back to Thaabiti, and saw that they were heading toward the Battery Tunnel. The big fireball of a sun was setting, and she looked at her watch. Henry would be pissed. Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

Chapter 37... The Broken Run

Billy took one look at the truck and thought: this is going to be one fucking, long-assed trip. A typical Sonny vehicle, the piece of shit was all dented and covered with graffiti. At least the fucking thing would blend in. One of those shiny new Ryder jobs would stand out like a whore at a convention, saying, Come get me, take me, I'm yours. This thing said, Hey, eat me! Taking a slow walk around, Billy checked the tires and looked for any fluids that may have leaked out. He couldn't afford to have the thing break down on him, and he certainly wasn't going to stay with it to protect whatever was in the big cargo box. Fuck that.

The door opened with a series of loud, grinding pops as if it was going to fall off the frame. He slammed it shut, twice, but still couldn't get it to close all the way. "What a hunk of fucking junk," he muttered as he put the key in the ignition; smelled like a fucking dead rat in there. Surprisingly, it fired up on the first try. He flicked his cigarette and pushed down on the stiff clutch, grinding the gears into what he thought was first. He let the clutch out slowly, hoping the shitbox wouldn't stall, and the big, ugly thing lurched forward, rocking and convulsing like dying wino. He drove slowly into the setting darkness, and found the light switch. He pulled it, but didn't see any difference in the roadway, and he wondered if he had any lights.

He checked the street signs at the first intersection. He was at the corner of Farmers Boulevard and 147th Avenue, the bottom of Queens, literally and figuratively. He'd take Farmers to Linden Boulevard and hang a right there, then hook onto Frances Lewis Boulevard, which would take him north all the way across the borough. He hung a left, feeling the cargo's weight as he made the turn. What the hell was back there? He had the pig of a truck just about floored in second gear, and it was barely moving. Shifting through to fourth, he really poured on the speed and made it up to thirty-five. He lit another cigarette, wondering how many times he'd have to shift through from first to fourth from one end of Queens to the other. At that point, he'd still only be halfway to his destination. This could take all fucking night, he thought; this run was worth a hell-of-a-lot more than a lousy thousand bucks.

He hadn't thought about adjusting the side mirror until he came up on the dead car in the roadway. He reached through his open window and wiggled it back and forth, pleased to see one of those little convex things that enabled him to see into his blind spot. "There you go," he said when he got it right. Then, he looked to the other side, hoping he wouldn't have to get out of the truck to adjust the mirror on that side, but there was no mirror, just shards of splintered glass inside the bent frame. "Damn," he said as he looked into the left side mirror again. Pulling in and out of traffic was going to be a bitch. There were three cars in back of him that he could see. Two of them pulled around immediately, but the third one stayed back for a while. What the hell is the guy doing, thought Billy, but finally, the car pulled out and blew past. It was a brown Ford Crown Victoria, he noticed, like one of those plain-brown-wrapper cop cars. He flipped his blinker and pulled into the left lane, forcing his lurching truck past the dead car. This was going to be a real pain in the ass, Billy determined, and he lit another smoke.

Seven cigarettes later, he veered right and took the ramp for Northern Boulevard, gunning the engine for all it was worth. "Asshole," he said to the single high beam that reflected into his eye. As soon as there was room, the headlight swerved out of the mirror and the car passed, followed by another. Billy stayed in the right lane and limped along toward the Clearview Expressway. Again, a third car stayed behind. He looked down at the speedometer: forty-five. Other cars were blasting past him, but this car stayed back, weaving in and out of his mirror with each bend in the road. Billy slowed. The car slowed. He slowed some more, down to thirty, and stayed there. The car stayed there. The ramp for the Clearview was coming up. He took it, one eye glued to the mirror. No car... or was there? He didn't see any lights, but was there a shadow back there? He slammed the gearshift into fourth and gunned the engine, building speed as he barreled down the ramp. He glanced at the speedometer: fifty, fifty-five, sixty. The piece-of-shit truck was vibrating. He glanced into the mirror one more time. Nothing. He let out a small sigh of relief, and opened another pack of Winstons. Damn it, he cursed, it was getting dark, and he couldn't see ten feet in front of him. Then, some drops of rain impacted loudly onto his windshield. Plop... plop plop... plop... plop; little exploding balls of water, coming faster.

"Isn't this just fucking great?" he growled. He searched for the knob for the windshield wipers, and hoped he had wipers. Where the fuck was the knob? Plop... plop, plopplopplop. It was coming even faster now, big drops. He lifted his foot off the accelerator. He couldn't see shit. Where was that fucking knob? There. He pulled it, and the knob came off in his hand. "Shit!" he said. Again, he fumbled around and felt the knob stem. He turned it this time, and suddenly the wipers moved, mixing the grime and dead bug guts into a murky mixture. He turned it again, and the wipers moved faster. Thank God, he thought. Slowly, the streaks got thinner and he could see again. He bounced across the Throggs Neck Bridge, up the Throggs Neck Expressway, across on Gun Hill Road, going up, over, around, and through, eventually making his way to the parking lot, section B, row 101, at Yonkers Raceway.

The lot was deserted, and there were no lights visible from the high oval grandstands. What the...? Billy checked his watch: 10:07. Where were all the cars? The lot was supposed to be full. They didn't cancel trotter races because of rain, did they? And, there were races tonight, weren't there? "Damn!" he shouted, and he pounded the steering wheel. Mist sprayed through his window, wetting his cigarette. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He waited, remembering his lights were still on. He turned them off, leaving the motor running.

He wiped the fog from inside the windshield as sheets of rain whipped across the lot, rocking the truck in an eerie lullaby and peppering into the side of the cargo box. This wasn't the plan. There was supposed to have been a race. There were supposed to have been thousands of cars in the lot, one of them the old Oldsmobile Delta 88 he was to have taken to the Gun Hill Manor Motel, where he was to leave it. He reached down and angrily slammed the gearshift into first. Obviously, someone had fucked up, and where he was at wasn't the place to be. He turned on the headlights and slowly moved the truck into the wall of water, not seeing the brown Crown Victoria at the edge of the lot that had been following him for the last two hours.

At 10:42, Billy walked into the lounge of the Gun Hill Manor Motel and pulled up a stool next to Carmen The Kid Madrid.

Clearly upset, "Where the hell have you been?" Carmen demanded.

"Hey, I don't need your shit right now. I got the truck parked outside."

"What truck?"

"The fucking truck I been driving for the last three hours—that truck. We got a change in plans."

"I don't want to know anything about any plans, and I don't want to know about any truck. All I know is that I was supposed to rent a car, give you a ride home, and return the rental car tomorrow on my way to work. That's what you said, Billy! You said that's all I had to do."

"I know that's what I fuckin' said, and now I'm saying there's been a fuckin' change in plans. You gotta follow me."

"Where are we going?"

"Back to where I picked up the goddamned truck, that's where." Billy ordered two beers, both for himself.

Carmen said, "I'm not following you anywhere. I don't like this. I don't like this at all."

Billy reached into his pocket and whipped out a wad of bills. Angrily, he slapped several of them down on the bar in front of Carmen. The bartender eyed both of them warily. "There's five hundred," Billy snarled. "You'd better fucking follow me, or tomorrow you, me, and Big Tony are all gonna have coffee together."

Carmen looked at the bills, and took them. "Just tell me where I gotta go and I'll meet you there," he said. "I'm not getting anywhere near you, or that fucking truck."

Billy wrote down an address inside a matchbook cover.

"Is this where you're bringing the truck?"

Billy nodded, and chugged most of his first beer.

"Then meet me here," said Carmen, writing down another address inside another matchbook cover.

"But that's six blocks away," Billy protested.

"That's your problem," Carmen said callously.

Billy picked up his second beer and started toward the door. "You can be a real prick when you wanna be, kid.

"Hey, you can't take that out of here," the bartender called, talking about the beer.

"I don't think he cares," said Carmen. Moments later, he watched the truck pull out of the four parking spots it occupied along the side of the building. Across the road, a pair of headlights came to life, and the car to which they belonged, a brown Ford Crown Victoria, pulled out and headed in the opposite direction. Carmen thought nothing of it, and didn't see it make a U-turn seconds later and zoom past the motel at sixty-five miles an hour.

Chapter 38... The Deal

"So where the fuck did you leave it?" Big Tony was mad as hell, at whom it wasn't quite clear yet, but it didn't make much difference. It wasn't pleasant when Big Tony got that way.

Billy just puffed on his cigarette. "Back where I picked it up," he replied.

"How'd you get inside the gates?"

"I didn't. I just left it on the street."

"Jesus H. Christ! The street!" Big Tony picked up the phone and began punching buttons furiously. A moment later, the scowl on his face became even more concentrated and he literally bellowed into the phone. "Sonny, this is Tony. Call me!" He slammed the phone down, and looked at Billy through furled eyebrows. "Get the fuck outta here."

Billy was only too happy to oblige. He left the tower, leaving a trail of ashes across the shiny showroom floor.

Carmen didn't even look up when Billy walked passed his desk. "Is he mad?"

"Mad? No. I don't think I'd call it mad. Ballistic is what I would call it."

"Am I in trouble?"

"You? No. You had nothing to do with it, kid. Actually, it's a good thing you were there." Another phone slam, and another string of curse words vibrated through the showroom.

Carmen took a deep breath as just as a shiny black Caddy wheeled up in front of the showroom, not in the parking spaces, but right in front, not ten feet from the entrance. Delmo, Billy, Lemuel, and Juan Hernandez, the rest of the Monday morning sales crew, were all standing around picking their noses near the front desk while they waited for the first maggots of the day. "What the hell is this?" Carmen asked as he walked up and joined them.

"Don't know," Lemuel answered. "But somebody's acting like his shit don't stink."

They all watched as some dapper white dude got out and buttoned the jacket of an obviously very expensive suit. He pulled out an equally expensive-looking attaché case, and walked around to the other side of the car to open the door. Shannon Fairchild appeared from inside, her head rising nobly above the top of the car.

"It's the Queen Mother," said Delmo, and they all scattered like ants. Carmen went back to his desk and busied himself by tracing his hand.

At the entrance, the Queen Mother waited for Paul Barrons to open the door, and, head held high, she stepped into the showroom and headed straight toward the tower. The sound of her heels echoed off the walls as she marched past the cars, which seemed to be watching her as well. Big Tony wasn't in the tower, so she sat in his chair, picked up the phone, and pushed the page button. "Delmo, come to the tower... please," she added as an afterthought.

Delmo said, "Oh, shit," and walked up salesmen's row.

Carmen watched the whole thing from his desk, which was the last one on salesmen's row, closest to the tower and almost hidden from view. There was no, Good morning, Delmo. How are the wife and kids? There was, Where is Mister DeLorenzo? and, Tell him to drag his fat ass up here.

Delmo said, "Yes ma'am," but he might as well have said, "Yes, massa woman." He slinked off back into Holtzman territory, and a minute later Big Tony was lumbering up the tower steps like a grizzly that had been unexpectedly awakened.

The air was thick, like how it smells just before a thunderstorm, thought Carmen, and he sat at his desk like a bunny hiding in a patch of brush while a wolf waited nearby. He couldn't help but overhear them.

The Queen Mother said, "Good morning, Mister DeLorenzo."

Big Tony took a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. "Mrs. Fairchild," he said, somewhat respectfully.

"You know Paul Barrons."

"Mister Barrons."

"Mister DeLorenzo."

"How are things?" the Queen Mother went on.

"Fine," said Big Tony.

"I see," said the Queen Mother. "And how is Patty doing?"

Big Tony shifted uncomfortably. "You never been too good at small talk, Mrs. Fairchild, and you didn't come here with your lawyer for no progress report on Patty. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"

Carmen picked up the phone and listened to the dial tone with one ear, while he continued to eavesdrop with the other. So far, it didn't seem like anyone in the tower had noticed him. He took a quick peek. No one had. He pushed the volume button on the phone, and the dial tone all but disappeared.

"You're right," said the Queen Mother. She too shifted in her chair and seemed to square off with Big Tony. "I'm here for a reason."

"Uh-huh."

"Mister DeLorenzo, we've decided to sell the dealership." The words rang with finality.

Carmen almost dropped the phone, and it suddenly began making that funny noise it makes when the handset is off the hook. Quickly, he pressed the hang up button and dialed the number for the correct time. He glanced up again, and he remained unnoticed. He pushed redial.

Big Tony pulled his huge body out of the little chair in front of the big desk. Ignoring Barrons, he walked around and hovered boldly over the Queen Mother. "We had a deal," he said.

At that point, the Queen Mother got out of her chair as well, her facial expression letting everyone know who was boss. At her full height, she was eye-to-eye with Big Tony. "That's right, Mister DeLorenzo. We had a deal. Do you have the money?"

"I'm working on it. I'm gonna need some more time."

"How much time?"

"I don't know, maybe six months."

"How much have you raised so far?" she asked, her chin squared to Big Tony's.

"I'm about halfway there. I got about a million-two. I just need to line some things up, is all. Just a little more time."

Carmen's heart was pounding, and he noticed that his hand was shaking. He thought about slinking off to the bathroom or something, but he dialed the number for the weather report instead.

Barrons spoke for the first time, breaking the confrontation of chins. "Ah, Mister DeLorenzo, there's been an additional change in plans."

Big Tony turned, looking as if he could eat Barrons in one bite. "What change, Paul?"

"We've decided to sell the land along with the dealership itself. If you're still interested in buying it, I'm afraid you're going to have to come up with a bit more than the original three million."

"How much more?"

Barrons reached over and pulled a piece of paper off the desk. He wrote something down, and handed it to Big Tony.

Big Tony glanced at it and crumpled it in his hand. "Where the fuck am I gonna get twenty million bucks?"

Carmen looked down salesmen's row. Heads were turning toward the tower.

The Queen Mother stood her ground like a giant oak tree. No big wind was going to blow her down, not then, not ever. "That's your problem," she snapped callously.

Barrons cleared his throat and motioned toward the watching eyes on salesmen's row. "Perhaps we should talk further about this in my office."

The Queen Mother scanned the showroom. "Yes, maybe we should," she said, slinging her Gucci bag over her shoulder. "Call me for an appointment, Mister DeLorenzo. I'll be glad to make time for you." She had spoken. She came off the tower and made her way down salesmen's row while every eye in the place watched. Barrons was right behind her.

Big Tony's voice blasted from the tower. "We had a goddamn deal!"

The only reply was the hhhssshhh of the front door closing. The Caddy pulled off the lot and headed down the avenue, while Patty's yellow Corvette pulled in from the opposite direction seconds later. Patty bounced into the showroom, making her way through the stares coming from salesmen's row. She looked Carmen square in the face as she passed his desk, and he mindlessly punched some more numbers into the phone.

"What the hell is going on?" she asked, shifting her gaze to Big Tony, who was still standing on the tower and vibrating in anger.

Carmen must have inadvertently punched someone's extension because Chita's voice sounded distinctly in his ear. "Hello, this is Chita." Surprised and relieved at the same time—surprised at Chita's voice, and relieved that Patty had shifted her attention to the tower—he said, "You wouldn't believe what just happened."

Chita said, "What?"

Carmen looked down salesmen's row, and wondered if anyone else knew what had just taken place.

Chapter 39... Rita's Show

"And I'm telling you the place is dirty!" Rita protested.

Grimstead sipped some cold coffee, debating whether to argue the point, or just throw her rather nice ass out of his office. "What makes you so sure?" he asked. He'd heard it all before.

"Because I've been watching the place for the last two weeks."

Grimstead looked at Morena, who shrugged. "When?"

"On my own time," she said unapologetically.

"I see. So, what makes this car dealership so interesting?"

"You remember those two young white kids, about a month ago, found in a dumpster in Jamaica?"

"Yeah, I remember. Overdosed on some pure coke."

"I knew one of them, and I'd like to get the bastards who killed him."

Her soul was out on the desk in front of him, and Grimstead sipped some more coffee. He'd felt like that about a case a couple of times in his own career, and he looked at Morena, who wasn't saying a word, but just nodded. It was communication enough. Grimstead leaned back and put his hands behind his head. It was his sponge pose. "I'm listening."

Nervously, Rita said, "I don't know where to start."

"Try the beginning," said Grimstead. Morena got up and poured some coffee, settling back against the far wall. It was Rita's show.

"Do you remember the day Captain Delgado was in your office, the day we got those two ODs a while back and you told us to get on it?"

"Of course."

"Well, there's some new brands of coke that have been making the rounds."

"Yeah, old news, O'Shea."

"Well, the street said there were a couple of brands that were hot."

"Let me guess," said Grimstead. "Cocktail, and 1-800."

"And one that's even purer: Mad Dog."

"I've heard the name," said Grimstead. He decided to be patient. "So?"

"It was probably Mad Dog that killed those kids. Coincidentally, Hector and I were working a source who said he knew where Mad Dog was coming from; said they had a couple of thousand bags."

"And?"

"And, our snitch is dead. Evidently he couldn't keep a secret."

"What's all that got to do with Fairchild MotorCars?"

Rita dipped into her handbag. "We got this," she said as she slid the card across Grimstead's desk.

His face impassive, Grimstead looked at the card, front and back, an old habit. "Sonny's Wholesale Autos—Cash or Trade. "Is this where the stuff is coming from?"

"I don't think so," Rita replied, an uneasy flutter in her voice.

"Did your snitch give this to you?"

"Not exactly. I found it at the scene right near the body the night he was killed."

"Which was... where?"

"A bar called the Green Lantern down near Kennedy Airport."

"So, you really don't know if this has anything to do with anything. Right? I mean, for all you know, someone else could have dropped this inside this Green Lantern place, right?"

"Right," Rita admitted.

This was what Grimstead called a swirly. All the facts swirled around, and around, like water in a toilet bowl. Eventually they would come together, maybe, but maybe they wouldn't. He mulled over what he knew about O'Shea: smart chick, stubborn though, a fact he'd discovered over the last few months. He looked up, noticing the intensity in her eyes as she watched him from across the desk. It was like a slow burn that never went out. He'd seen it before, and he usually liked that in a cop, but he knew intensity like that could go out of control. It needed to be nurtured and brought along slowly. Otherwise, it might burn itself out. "So far, you've got some high-grade dope on the street, a dead snitch, and a business card. How does all this point to Fairchild MotorCars?"

"Well, Hector did some checking on our friend Sonny." She pointed to the card. "The guy is pretty shady, and he has a past."

"Which is?"

"The guy's got a sheet full of small-time stuff, and he used to make porno movies."

"Porno movies?"

"Right, porno movies. Him and his girlfriend. She still makes 'em. From what I understand, she's quite the star. Her movie name is Holly Hollow."

Grimstead's face turned beet-red and he looked at Morena. "You know her?" Morena asked, the smirk on his face saying more than his words.

Grimstead tried not to look at Rita. "My wife and I, well.... Hell, you need something to spice up the old marriage after sixteen years." Grimstead went right back to business. "Once again folks, third time, what's all this have to do with Fairchild MotorCars?"

"Well, to this point, nothing."

Grimstead looked at his watch. "C'mon, O'Shea. I ain't got all day."

"Right. We were a little surprised by the fact that, one, all the cars in Sonny's yard were junk, and, two, hardly anyone goes in and out of there."

"Where's there?"

"131st Street, South Ozone Park."

"Jesus," said Grimstead. "I wouldn't send my worst enemy into some parts of South Ozone Park." He indicated for Rita to go on, and five minutes later he shook his head and said, "I still don't see what you've got here. You've got a business card, a car wholesaler that doesn't do any business, a dealership that you say is dirty, and a salesman who rides around in trucks on Sunday nights. Did this salesman meet anyone, or drop something off, or pick anything up?"

"No, and I thought it was pretty strange too, but he did make the stop at that motel."

"He wouldn't need a truck to pick up dope," said Grimstead. "Something doesn't add up."

"There's something else," said Rita.

"O'Shea...."

"The general manager of the dealership plays with the big boys."

"This isn't the movies, O'Shea, and I'm not Dirty Harry." Morena chuckled. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means, that he hangs with guys whose last names end in a vowel." She reached into her bag and pulled out some notes. "I followed him to this address."

Grimstead looked at the address. "This is getting old, kid, and so am I. So?"

"That's the address of the Blue Moon Social Club. I checked with Manhattan South. Supposedly, that's the headquarters for one of the families. Actually, it's not one of the families, it's the family." She slipped another piece of paper across the desk.

Grimstead's eyes got real big. "The Michael DeLuna, the playboy Mafia Don?"

"The one and only. Wouldn't it be nice to take him down?"

"You'll never get close to him. They say he's as smart and smooth as he looks, cold as an ice cube and just as slippery."

"Yes, I will," said Rita, looking over her shoulder at Morena. "I've got a plan."

Part Three... Getting Out

Chapter 40... The 4th of July

I had to work even though it was the 4th of July, but I had a couple of hours to kill so I poured myself another cup of coffee and checked the previous Sunday's help wanted ads—again. Normally, we didn't open on the 4th—it was one of four holidays when we stayed closed—but Big Tony had decided we would be open this year, and I knew instinctively it was because of the big scene with the Queen Mother and the selling of the dealership thing. The guys didn't take too well to the news, but Big Tony handled it in his usual tactful, understanding, fatherly manner.

"I don't give a fuck what you got planned," he'd screamed at Lemuel. "You either haul your black ass in here and sell some fuckin' cars, or I'll get me someone who can. It's about time we made some fuckin' money around here."

Lemuel looked ready to kill, but Big Tony looked ready to kill him first. He was aching for a fight. He must have felt my gaze because he inexplicably turned toward me and looked down like Zeus getting ready to hurl a thunderbolt. "You got a problem too, Madrid?"

I was just sitting there. "Me? No. No problem, Mister DeLorenzo, sir. No problem at all. I got no problem with that." I told him I didn't have a problem. That's what I told him.

"Good. Otherwise, your ass is out the fuckin' door as well."

Well, I thought, if the Queen Mother was going to sell out, sooner or later my ass was out the door anyway, along with all the other asses. In the meantime, however, I had bills to pay. I didn't see anything new in the want ads besides what I had already circled.

On the way to the dealership, about a million things bounced around inside my head, and I came to the conclusion that I was one confused little puppy. Primarily, I was torn as to whether my eventual separation was a good thing, or a bad thing. I mean, the way Big Tony was ranting and raving, and cursing at anyone in sight, I could have been fired any minute.

In a way, I regretted it. I mean, I'd been selling some cars lately, and, outside of the bad month where I'd borrowed some money from Billy, I was doing okay. It was certainly better than being a grease monkey and having barely enough money to buy bread and mayonnaise. Being in sales, I could buy bread, mayonnaise, and baloney, and, as such, I vowed that my little trips with Billy to skanky bars and shit were going to stop before I my ass ended up in jail, or something. I know I'd said that before, but I meant it this time, even if Big Tony threatened to fire me like he always did if I didn't go along. Fuck him! Like I said, sooner or later, I was out of there anyway.

Another series of thoughts moved in as I bounced along with the clickety-clack of the F train. Briefly, I thought about Chita. I felt I'd been on the right track with her, to the point where I thought I could get lucky—if I got really lucky, that is. Heaven knows, I needed to get lucky. I was hornier than a goddamned toad, and my hand was starting to wear out. As soon as I got in good with her, however, I managed to piss her off almost immediately. Either that, or she pissed me off with her constant analyzing and telling me I was being "an egotistical, self-centered jerk," rather than being myself, whatever that was. Yes, sir, that was a real ego-booster, and I basically got tired of hearing it, even though I probably would've put up with it if she'd given me the time of day. It was her acting like she was Saint Charristida of Jamaica that really bothered me. Like, she'd never done anything she regretted in her whole perfect, little life. I even actually pictured us together, me behind my driving shades, and she on my arm, all soft and curvy the way she was, but the picture faded quickly, especially after the last episode with Sweet Cakes. I'm sure Holtzman forced Chita to handle that big pile of cash.

One thing was true, though. The longer I worked the floor, the more I realized how right Chita was about the other salesmen. Patty had a lot to do with that realization as well. It was Patty who told me, watch, learn, and listen, and I did—a lot. I couldn't believe the kind of crap those guys pulled. They snaked ups; they baited-and-switched off the ads; they held maggots' licenses if they didn't buy to get them back into the dealership. And, if there was a lie that hadn't been invented yet, one of our salesmen eventually got to it. The coolness of being a hotshot salesman was wearing off. You had to look out for yourself, I learned, because nobody was gonna do it for you.

The F train pulled into the Parsons Boulevard station and the platform was virtually empty. God, I thought, the 4th of July was going to be a tough day to make any money. The street was just as deserted. None of the merchants had put anything out yet, and the only aroma I could identify on the street besides piss was that of fresh donuts from the Donut Hut on the corner or Parsons Boulevard and Hillside Avenue. Ah, donuts and piss.

I got a glazed the size of a Christmas wreath and munched it as I walked, thinking more about my life, or lack of one. It seemed as if the only thing I did was get up and go to work, go home and feed Rudolph, then do it again. Everyone's life at the dealership seemed like that, even Patty's. She was there all the time, day and night, day in and day out, quite a change from her first couple of weeks on the job. Clearly she was taking it seriously.

As I ambled past the open barbed-wired gates to the lot, I noticed a snazzy Porsche with a spoiler the size of a dining room table on the back. The showroom was empty, and dark, not a soul in sight. For a second, I wondered if anyone was there at all. I looked back through the huge windows, searching for Patty's Corvette. That's when I heard the voices, which belonged to Big Tony and someone else.

"You shoulda seen the motherfucker's face when he opened the fuckin' door and that fuckin' calf head fell off right down on his motherfuckin' shoes."

I recognized the intonation immediately.

"You best watch yourself," said Big Tony. "I bet he don't take too kindly to pranks like that."

"Fuck him," snapped Tommy Lee. "Pretty soon, old Tommy Lee's gonna have his own turf; ain't gonna need that motherfucker no more."

It didn't sound like a conversation I wanted to hear more of, so I made some noise: a cough, a slam of a drawer, a muffled thud of the door on a hot new Blazer. It worked. Big Tony's big head popped up above the half wall of the tower.

"Hey, Madrid," he yelled. "Get your ass up here."

And a good fucking morning to you, too. "Yeah boss?"

"Are you the first one in?"

"Looks like it," I said, looking around.

"First one in gets the sale," said Big Tony. "Tommy Lee's got a trade this time." Big Tony nodded toward the Porsche I'd noticed when I came in.

Tommy Lee pointed toward the floor. "You pick it, boy."

Tommy Lee's face was drawn and emaciated; his skin looked like beef jerky. "Pick what?" I asked.

"The car. You pick the motherfuckin' car."

"Which one?"

Tommy Lee dragged on a cigarette stuck between his skinny fingers. "I don't give a fuck," he said, coughing up a lung full of smoke. "I ain't gonna have it long anyway."

I checked out the floor. There was the Blazer, a black Camaro, a blue Monte Carlo SS—hot car—and some pukey compacts. No Jags, no Continentals, and he'd already bought two Town Cars from me. "How about the Blazer?" I asked. Either that, or the Monte Carlo was the most expensive.

"Fine," said Tommy Lee. "I ain't never bought one o' them."

"I'll get a sales order." When I returned to the tower, I couldn't help but ask, "What do you do with all these cars?"

Tommy Lee turned a bloodshot eye toward me. Then, he flashed a yellowish smile, or a grimace, I couldn't tell which. "Just write it up, and don't ask no more stupid motherfuckin' questions."

I took the hint. "Write it up in your name?"

Again, Tommy Lee looked at me as if I was retarded. In one sweeping motion, he pulled a newspaper off Big Tony's desk and leafed through it, tossing it at my feet. It was open to the obituaries. "Pick a name, boy, and don't make me too old, y'hear?"

Chapter 41... Reapproach

I know I said it was beginning to look as if Chita and I would never get it on. To be truthful, I only half-believed that. I needed to give her some space, I concluded, and not act like the other sales hounds, and then reapproach her. That's all—just like handling a fussy maggot. I'd done it a hundred times, and it worked just about every time. Usually, when I allowed a maggot some space, he would warm up and get friendlier when a few minutes earlier he'd given me the old just looking. Right. He'd walked onto the lot, sweating his ass off on a ninety-four-degree Tuesday afternoon when he should have been at work, and he was just looking? No way.

I figured love, or, more properly in this case, lust, was just like sales: give the maggot—well, in this case, let's not say maggot, let's say subject—some breathing room, let her get comfortable, and, when she shows some interest, move in. It was just like sales—I needed to sell myself first, and then sell the product—which, in the latter case, was me all over again.

Well, despite my plan, any chance for a reapproach went right out the window that 4th of July afternoon. I finally got around to bringing the sales order for the Blazer back to F & I. Tommy Lee had driven it off the lot hours earlier.

"What's this?" she asked somewhat testily, but I chalked that up to the fact that, like everyone else, she didn't want to be there. God, she looked hot.

"It's a sales order," I said, putting on my warmest smile. She smelled good, too.

"I can see that."

"So?"

"So, there's nothing else with it, no finance papers, no check, no T & T form, nothing. This paperwork isn't anywhere near complete. Where's the customer?"

"Gone."

"Gone?"

"Over the curb."

"You let a car off the lot without signed papers? Where's this customer live?" That's when she looked up at the address portion of the sales order. It was blank.

"I'll fill it in later," I said. "As soon as Tommy Lee sends the cash."

"Oh, God," she sighed, almost tearfully. "Not this time. No way, no how." She held the sales order out toward me. "I'm not going to jail for you, or anyone else."

My warm smile turned cold in a hurry. "Relax. You're not going to jail."

She reached into a drawer and pulled out a file folder. "Read this," she said, waving it under my nose.

I opened the folder. There, on the first page, were several lines highlighted in yellow: In addition, filers who intentionally disregard the cash reporting requirements of section 6050I, by knowingly or willfully failing to file complete or correct Forms 8300, may be assessed a penalty the greater of $25,000 or... the amount of cash... received in such transaction, up to $100,000. It took a second for the legalese to register. "This doesn't say anything about going to jail," I said stupidly. "It says you get fined."

Chita looked at me with that duh! look of hers. "Right, sales guy. You get fined, and you, in this case, is me. And where do you think I'm going to get $25,000 dollars if we get caught?"

"The dealership will have to pay it."

Duh, again, eyes rolling back into their sockets. "This place would hang me out to dry in a heartbeat," she said rather convincingly. "Holtzman would deny any knowledge about the forms not being filed."

"I think you're jumping to an awful lot of conclusions." That's what I said, but I kind of knew she was right.

"I'm not willing to take that chance." She shoved the folder back into her desk, folding her little white hands with their little red fingernails in front of her, her lips drawn tight. Suddenly, she was The Sphinx: huge and immovable. "They can fire me first," she added with finality.

I took a beat, running a hand through my hair. I didn't want to continue that conversation, not the way it was going. I needed to reapproach. I leaned over the desk, friendly-like, putting on my warm smile, the one I used with maggots all the time. I'd rehearsed it a thousand times, and I knew exactly how it looked. "This isn't a cash deal," I said. "There's a trade."

Chita looked at me, but her lips stayed tight and actually got thinner. Pulling up on the collar of her blouse like I was trying to look down there, "Don't hover over me and try to intimidate me like your slimy friends try to do," she snapped.

I wasn't hovering. I was trying to be friendly. I backed off and put my hands up. "Listen, I'm just saying there's no cash here. Jesus, take a chill pill." Maybe Billy was right. Maybe what she needed was a good, stiff, hot beef injection from Doctor Madrid.

She eased up, and her shoulders dropped a bit from their high position. "Sorry," she said. "I'm under a lot of pressure—you know, school work, my sister is in trouble again. I didn't mean it." She held out her hand. "Where are the papers on the trade?" she said, her voice sounding like a resigned sigh.

"I'll have them this afternoon. We're waiting for Sonny to come over and give a price on the trade. It's a Porsche. It'll more than cover the Blazer."

Another resigned sigh. "Fine. I'll hold the sales order on my desk. I'll need the registration and title to the Porsche."

"We don't have either of those."

"You don't have a title or registration?" she repeated.

"I don't think so. Big Tony said for you to go see Holtzman about that."

She crossed her hands again and looked into them so that those lustrous curls of hers dangled in her face. I watched as she got up from the desk and wiped away some tears that had welled up in her eyes. Suddenly, she looked like a fawn, all soft and vulnerable. "I need to get another job," she said, walking away. "This just isn't worth it."

Join the club, I thought. I felt sorry that I'd caused her grief again, but, hey, we all had grief, right? Besides, a sale was a sale, and that's what we were there for. Right? To make sales? Still, I felt bad. I wondered if a nice present would make her feel better.

Chapter 42... Porchee Es Ready

I mean, the guy was a nutcase, a friggin' madman the entire week. Sure, business was soft, but Jesus, but I didn't think he could go around firing people at will. Well, he did, three salesmen and a service manager, all within three days of each other. Lemuel bit the dust. It wasn't a pleasant sight.

"Lemuel! How many cars you sold this month?" Big Tony made absolutely no attempt to keep his voice down. It boomed from the tower like thunder.

Lemuel sat in front of the mahogany desk, and although I couldn't see him from my desk—you know, the last one on salesmen's row, closest to the tower—I knew he was shaking in his boots. I'm sure Big Tony was aware of my presence, as well as everyone else's, but obviously he didn't give a fat shit. Even Billy and Delmo paid attention.

Lemuel said, "I ain't sold no cars this month, boss, but it's only the sixth of the month. You know 4th of July week is always slow in the car business."

Wrong thing to have said.

"Don't tell me about the fuckin' car business," Big Tony boomed. "I got more smarts about the fuckin' car business in the head of my dick than you got in your whole body. How many last month?"

"Six."

"Six? Six lousy, fuckin' cars?"

"It was a slow month boss. I'll pick it up. They just wasn't buyin', that's all."

"But they was buyin', Lemuel. Billy sold sixteen. Madrid did twelve. Delmo, fifteen. And you sold six lousy, fuckin' cars."

"Sorry boss. I know what I gotta do, okay? I'll take more time, spend more hours. You know, get a few more ups."

"No, Lemuel. I'll tell you what you gotta do. You gotta take these maggots and you gotta step on 'em. You gotta squeeze 'em Lemuel, bounce 'em around a little. You gotta get 'em into the car, and get their license back there so Holtzman can hang on to it for a while. You gotta fry these bastards, Lemuel. Feed 'em a few hot dogs, get 'em good and tired, don't let the fuckers outta the dealership. Then, when they're good and beat, you gotta get 'em up here and shove those fuckin' deals down their throats. That's what you gotta do, Lemuel."

Big Tony's ferocity was unbelievable, and I felt sorry for Lemuel. I thought about getting down on my hands and knees and crawling away.

"I don't feel good about treating customers like that," Lemuel said meekly.

Big Tony stood up, the sweat beading off his shiny brow. "Customers! They're maggots, Lemuel. Do you understand? Maggots!" His huge poundage shook as his words echoed into his own body. "You gotta beat these people up, Lemuel, break 'em down. That's how you sell cars. Whater'ya gonna do, Lemuel, let the motherfuckers walk and think about it?"

"If they want to, yeah. They'll come back if it's the right deal for them."

"Yeah, but you won't. Front door is that way. We can't use no salesmen who sell a lousy fuckin' six cars a month."

"Are you firing me?"

"Sayonara," said Tony, his thick finger pointing to the door. "You are now a memory."

Lemuel made his way down the six steps and tried to make as elegant an exit as he could under the circumstances. Just as he opened the door to leave, clearly in a what-the-hell state of mind, he turned and yelled across the showroom. "Hey Big Tony—fuck you Big Tony. You'll go down." Lemuel's middle finger hung in the air for what must have been a full minute before he turned and took what was left of his dignity with him.

Patty breezed in just then, and I got up to leave. I didn't want to hear any more. Big Tony's words were burned into my brain, and I thought I was going to be sick. I meandered into the shop where I bought a soda and spotted Kokei by one of the repair lifts. You remember Kokei: Kokei Okamoto—he could fix anything. I'd even seen him make parts, for crying out loud. I waltzed over, thinking I'd hang out there until Big Tony cooled down. I hadn't talked to Kokei much since I'd gone into sales, and I thought suddenly that I kind of missed him. We used to have lunch together almost every day. Anyway, I went over and thought we'd shoot the breeze for a while, although it wasn't much of a breeze with Kokei; it was more like little gusts of understanding. Sometimes, when one of the gusts got through, he'd smile, and nod, and bow, then jibber-jabber something in words I could barely make out. We talked that way for about ten minutes while loud voices filtered through the back door from the showroom, which was some thirty feet away. I couldn't make out what anyone was saying, which was fine with me—probably someone else getting shit-canned for using the wrong color ink on a form, or something—but after a while I could tell the voices belonged Big Tony and Patty. They must have been screaming at each other for their voices to carry that far.

I was only half-listening as Kokei jabbered something, then I saw he was motioning for me to move so he could back a car out of the bay. Some moments later, he reappeared with the Porsche Tommy Lee had traded the previous day, the engine purring that high, metallic purr that a Porsche makes. Then, Kokei whipped out a set of tools the likes of which I'd never seen before. Opening the driver's door, he went down on his back and started digging underneath the dash. I stepped over. "Kokei, what the hell are you doing under there?"

Kokei's hand came out, and he waved at the toolbox atop the driver's seat. "Sack, prease," he said, his words muffled. Prease was please.

Seeing the soft velvet sack, I put it into Kokei's hand. He fumbled with it and extracted some pointy metal things, which to me looked like lock picks, or something. His hand came out again, waving.

"Drill prease," he said.

I looked into the box, and handed over what looked to be a cordless drill, but it was no ordinary drill. The voices were still coming from the showroom, but the noise from the tool drowned them out, thankfully.

"What are you doing under there?" I asked again.

Kokei's hand again. "Rever prease."

"What?"

"Rever, prease. Rever, rever!"

I looked into the kit. Rever? What the hell was a rever?

When Kokei realized I didn't understand, he scooted out and extracted what looked to be a small pry bar. "Rever," he said, his toothy Japanese grin was as wide as it could get.

"Right. Rever," I confirmed, still having no idea. In any case, back underneath he went, and seconds later, bop, the entire assembly comes down, wires all over the place. It was on top of Kokei's belly and I thought I'd help by holding it, or pulling it out, or something, but Kokei began yelling immediately.

"No, no no no!"

That, I understood. I stood motionless, the whole mess in my hands. Kokei scooted out. The voices were getting louder, if that was possible, Patty's voice mostly.

I watched, expecting Kokei to dig into the tangle, but he didn't. Instead, he let the tangle dangle and reached into the tool kit, extracting yet another shiny thingamabob that looked like it could have come from a space ship.

The voices were screaming together now. I thought I heard a huge fuck you—Big Tony's voice.

Kokei reached into the very corner of the disassembled dash, and I heard a crisp thunk. He turned and held up a piece of metal, a satisfied grin pinned to his smudgy face. It took me some moments to realize it was the vehicle ID number plate. Kokei tossed it casually into a trashcan. From his rolling tool chest, he extracted another similar piece of metal, and I knew instantly what it was. When he was done, Kokei turned, his Japanese eyes bright with pride.

"You terra Big Tony Porchee es ready, yes, prease?" His head was nodding up and down. "Porchee es ready."

I sipped my soda and thought about what I'd just seen. Geez. I sipped again. No more voices. Geez, I thought again as I walked through the parts lounge and into the showroom. It was silent, totally and completely eerie. I didn't see anybody except for Big Tony, who was in the tower shuffling papers, his head down. I wasn't about to tell Big Tony that the Porchee es ready, not then, no way. I looked through the big windows and saw Delmo waving for me to join him.

"What happened in there?" I asked, only too happy to be outside even though it was hot as blazes out there.

"You want into the pool?" Delmo asked.

"What pool?"

Delmo took a twenty from Billy, and a ten from Juan Hernandez, who was also there. "We got a pool going on how long Patty will last." Delmo turned his attention to Billy.

"Nine," said Billy.

"She's tough," said Juan. "Gimme nineteen—nineteen more days, then she's gone."

"You want in?" Delmo asked again.

"Not today," I said.

Chapter 43... Flying Pigs

Patty didn't show up for a couple of days, which was no surprise to anyone, and for a while all the guys thought Peppie in parts had won the pool. His pick was two days. But, Patty showed up after all and did her thing like nothing had happened. Big Tony did the same. We were at peace again.

Me? I was hanging out at the receptionist's desk, waiting for a maggot. I'd heard that our teasy young receptionist thought I was cute, which I thought she was cute too, and I'd been thinking about making a move on her seeing as Charristida Sophia Teresa Espino and me weren't really setting the world on fire romantically. Up to that point, I'd only had a few words with the delightfully airy Tanisha, content to watch her jiggle across the floor and make dirty jokes about her tits like all the other guys did. But, for some reason, that morning I decided to go up to her and say something really serious, like, "Hi. How you doin'?"

"Fine, Carmen," she answered coyly.

She called me by name. Cool. "You're lookin' good today."

"I always look good," she said, letting me get a good eyeful, which I did.

I'd never dated a black chick before, not that it mattered, but I'd never been attracted to one. Tanisha had glowing, light skin, the color of smooth milk chocolate, and a body that I can only describe as sleek. I was tempted.

"You got a boyfriend?" I asked. No sense in beating around the bush... yet.

"Nothing steady."

Cool. "Maybe me and you can hang sometime."

She leaned back and let me have another look at her glorious brown mounds. She knew exactly what she was doing, and I loved it. Tanisha was pretty young, but I think she'd already figured out that those things could open a lot of doors for her in life.

"Sure Carmen." She winked. "You say when."

"Hey, Madrid, maggot on the lot," Big Tony yelled from the tower. I was up.

"I'll be back," I said to Tanisha. I pointed a finger at her like I meant it, cool-like.

"I'll be waitin' baby," she said, accepting my gesture.

I turned toward the lot and immediately recognized the chick making her way toward the showroom. Sure, it was the same one who'd looked at the red Camaro a couple of weeks earlier. She was wearing the same neon sunglasses, and I slipped on my own driving shades as I stepped onto the lot. It was hot out, and breezy, and the wind played with that beautiful red hair of hers, making it look like there were flecks of gold in it as it reflected in the sun. I walked right up.

"Rita, isn't it?" I gave her a quick once over. No L.L. Bean safari shorts this time, but a tailored black skirt over which an almost sheer silk blouse fluttered in the breeze. Very nice.

"You have a good memory," she said, brushing back her mischievous hair.

"You're not easy to forget."

"And you're Carmen, right? I could say the same about you."

She extended a soft hand, but gave a good squeeze when she shook mine. I noticed she took off her glasses and looked me in the eye, and I thought the handshake lingered for a moment.

"We sold the red Camaro, hon, but we got a nice blue one."

"The name's Rita," she said. "Not hon."

I couldn't tell if the look on her face was a smile, or a snarl. "Okay... Rita. You want to take a look at the blue one. It's a real beauty."

"Actually, I'm not here to look at a car."

I was a little taken aback. "What then?"

"I came here to talk."

"Talk? Talk to who?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you."

Life was good, I thought for a brief second, but it wasn't what I thought.

"Remember when you said I'd make a good salesperson?"

She emphasized the person part of the word, understandably so. "Yeah," I answered.

"I've been thinking about it. I've been out of work for a while, and, well, I thought I'd come over and find out who to talk to about getting a job here. You really think I'd make a good salesperson?"

"Sure," I said, and it was the truth. "I'm pretty sure guys would buy from you, all right, and probably women too, if you put on a good trust-me act.

"Well, who do I talk to?"

I debated. "This may not be a good day," I said, remembering Big Tony's nasty-ass mood.

"Why not?"

I put my driving shades back on. She did the same. "Boss man's not very social today. Ain't been in a good mood all week."

Rita just nodded, like she understood exactly. "That would be the big guy, right?"

She knew? "Right," I said.

She reached down, bending the side view mirror of the car next to us, and touched up some lipstick at the corners of her mouth. She checked her teeth and smoothed her skirt. Satisfied, she asked, "What about boss lady?"

"You mean Patty?"

She looked up at the huge sign. "That's her name on the building, isn't it? Where is she?"

I just stepped aside. "Inside, I guess." I couldn't help but chuckle as Rita made her way past. I almost told her it was a waste of time. A woman? At the dealership? A woman who looked like that? In Jamaica? When big, fat pigs fly, I thought.

Half an hour later, Patty and Rita came back out, shaking hands like they were old buddies. I was still on the lot, having a totally worthless conversation with Billy when they turned and slowly walked toward the gate. When Patty saw me, she crooked a finger with the come here sign. I obliged. Billy was doing some serious eyeballing.

"Rita tells me it's because of you that she applied. Nice going, Madrid."

"It weren't nothin'," I said, and it weren't. All I did was try to sell her a car.

"She starts tomorrow morning," said Patty. "Why don't you take a few minutes and show her around."

To say I was rendered speechless would be putting it mildly.

"Madrid? Are you okay?" Patty asked.

"Yeah, sure... fine," I said, somewhat dry in the mouth. "C'mon," I said to Rita. "We'll walk the lot." I adjusted my driving shades, looking up briefly to see the huge July sun hanging over the Fairchild MotorCars sign. Maybe it was the heat, or perhaps my imagination was playing games with me because, just for a second, I thought a saw a big pig fly over that sign, but it was just a stinking pigeon.

Chapter 44... 'Tennn... hut!

It was the slowest of the slow, even for a Friday night. Not many people bought cars on Friday nights, as most decided to do it on Saturday and make a day of it. If those maggots only knew we'd do just about anything to make a deal on a Friday night.... Anyway, we were all standing around, picking our respective butt cracks, except for the new chick, Rita, who was out on a test drive with some old coot who looked like he didn't have two nickels to rub together. I looked at my watch: 8:10. Thank God, I thought, there was less than an hour to go, and I prayed that some goofy maggot with no money and nothing better to do wouldn't stumble in and want to go on a test drive. There was still some daylight left, and I thought briefly about leaving early, so I checked the tower where Big Tony and Holtzman were leaning back in their chairs and shooting the breeze. What the hell. I climbed the six steps into Big Tony land. One of his herb plants, sage I think it was, smelled particularly pungent that night.

Clearly annoyed that I had interrupted his extremely important conversation, he looked at me, and barked, "Yeah?"

"Ah, well, ahem, it's kind of slow boss, and I was wondering, well, if it was okay and everything, if maybe, ahem, if it was okay with you, if I could leave early, if you didn't mind, that is."

Big Tony looked at Holtzman with one of those can you believe this shit looks. Leave early? Holtzman turned toward me, the expression of total shock and utter disbelief spread across his stupid face.

"We're open till nine, kid," Big Tony snarled.

Jesus. You'd think I'd just farted in confession, or something. Holtzman gave me another of his belittling looks, and somehow the words fucking asshole popped into my head. I just hunched my shoulders and slinked away silently, knowing that anything further from me would earn more of the same admiration and respect I'd just received. I got two desks down salesmen's row when, from behind a high minivan, I heard, "Pssst." It was Billy, holding a videocassette in one hand, and a box in the other, across which Hollow Throat was written in creamy white letters.

"In the back," he whispered coarsely. "In the parts lounge."

Now, the parts lounge was where customers—excuse me, maggots—waited while their cars were being serviced. There were a couple of couches and some chairs in there, along with a couple of vending machines, and a TV. Normally, the TV was on all the time, and usually it was showing some comedy, or something, but that night it was hooked up to a VCR that I have no idea where it came from. Gathered there was, well, everybody. Kokei was there, along with Gus from parts, and the Ethiopian guys from get-ready; then there was Billy, and Delmo, and the rest of the salesmen on duty, along with Tanisha, right up front, and a couple of the guys from Holtzman's F & I department. Billy danced in waving the tape triumphantly over his head, and a hushed round of cheers rose up inside the lounge.

"Put that tape in the slot, honey," said Tanisha. "I gots to see this." She sounded really excited.

Gusts of snorting laughter erupted among the gathered. Kokei tittered nervously, while Delmo leaned against the entrance to the lounge. I couldn't tell if he was standing guard, or if he was on the verge of leaving, but he didn't leave. Billy popped the cassette into the VCR, and then motioned for Delmo to flip the light switch. Immediately, the screen lit up with the words Hollow Throat emblazoned over some naked bodies, the words wavy and white, dripping down the screen. Kokei tittered again, rubbing his hands together and looking around as if he thought his mother would catch him. Slowly, the letters melted into white globules and faded off the screen, then the camera focused on the fuzzy, flesh-colored forms, which slowly sharpened into recognition. There on the screen, one behind the other, were three huge erections, one huger than the next, standing up like flagpoles. The third one must have been this long and looked to be as big around as a pot roast.

Now, I'd seen these movies before—every guy has—but I was not a regular viewer. I'd certainly never watched one in mixed company, and I was a little embarrassed standing in that darkened parts lounge with everyone huddled together nervously. I could smell the sweat, we were so close, but no one was paying attention to me.

There, on the screen, the camera moved around so that it looked like three soldiers with big purple helmets standing at attention, perfectly parallel, waiting for an inspection from some commanding officer. Then, from a corner of the screen, in came the star, buck-naked. Boom boom, ta ta boom—ta ta ta boom boom, ta boom. Even in the movie she had a magnetism that drew your eye and made you watch as she moved, her flesh quivering as she walked. She posed for the camera momentarily, rubbing and pinching herself, mounding her flesh for the audience. The camera moved to her face, then closer, and closer still until it focused only on her parted red lips, over which a wet tongue dragged with agonizing slowness. The lips moved, and the camera followed. Over, then down they went, over, tongue licking, dewy, red. The camera followed, sharply focused, down, over, until, pop, the first soldier appeared, standing at attention and waiting for a good tongue lashing from Commander Holly. She extended her tongue like a lizard's, snagging a drop of expectancy off the first helmet and pulling it in, a transparent string stretching and falling against her chin. Then, suddenly, bloop, the purple helmet was gone, then, bloop, it was back out, then, bloop, gone again, until, slurp, it was gone, I mean really gone—all of it, disappeared, right down to the little curly hairs, which poked her in the nose.

A little moan of amazement came from the gathered, along with a couple of holy shits!"

Holly moved to the next soldier, and again, it disappeared, down for the count, so to speak. I couldn't believe it myself. Where the hell did it all go? I stood there, mesmerized, not daring to touch myself, and watched as she bobbed up and down for what must have been five minutes, the huge column of flesh disappearing into her mouth like a pile driver. So far, there hadn't been a word uttered in the scene, just some wacky guitar music backing the frantic action.

Finally, she moved over to the pot roast. The thing stood there like a veined cannon, and she gripped it with both hands for a second, just to make sure it was adequately firm, I guess, and proceeded to open her mouth as wide as a garage door. Neither hand went all the way around the thing, and even with both hands choking it there was as much left over as I had between my legs on my best day. Slowly, inch-by-inch she went down, gagging, down some more, until finally, gulp, it was gone—all of it.

I heard gasps, all over the place, then, "Jesus Christ!" I don't know who said it.

"Goddamn," Tanisha exclaimed. "Look at that spic bitch go down."

Normally, the comment wouldn't have gone over too well with the Puerto Rican guys, but everyone was watching the huge pot roast disappear into Holly's throat, over and over again: down... up... down, slurp, gag, slurp, spit, and gulp. How in the world could she breathe? Then, the three actors got up—standing, that is—and Holly got on her knees, continuing to work on the pot roast while, at the same time, the other two prepared to occupy the other orifices into which they could possibly fit. Her movie name certainly was appropriate, I thought. We didn't get a chance to see what happened next because, click, the lights came on. It was Patty.

"What the hell is going on here?" She didn't sound pleased.

Click. The TV went off, and everyone shuffled toward the door, in the middle of which Patty was standing. One by one, everyone stepped past her, some giggling, some trying to hide their embarrassment. Tanisha moved past proudly, head held high. I was behind her, trying not to look into Patty's eyes. Billy was last.

Big Tony was in the middle of the showroom, his hulking girth like a giant pillar among the shiny cars. I guess he was wondering what all the commotion was about. As Billy moved past Patty's burning glare, he tossed the tape to Tony as casually as if he'd borrowed a pen. "Thanks Boss," he said. "Tell Sonny I'd like to audition for his next movie." He popped a fresh smoke between his lips.

Patty turned toward Big Tony, seething, and I decided to get out of there immediately. One the way out, I passed Rita, who was at a desk on salesmen's row, pen in hand, filling out a sales order for the old coot with whom she'd just spent the last couple of hours. Another deal, her third that week, I think.

"Hi Carmen," she said casually. "What's going on?"

"I have absolutely no idea," I said, and I didn't.

Chapter 45... A Short Saturday Meeting

The next morning I decided that I wanted to be at the top of the up list, so I got to the dealership early. The first one in got the first up, second one in, second up, and so on. I wasn't first, however—Rita was. Having the second up was okay, though, and I leafed through the Daily News while the other salesmen filed in and prepared for the usual Saturday morning meeting. I tried not to pay too much attention to Rita, which was hard to do.

"How you doing, Carmen?" she asked after a while.

"Okay. You?"

"Fine, I think."

"You're sellin' some cars, ain'tcha?"

"A few. Gonna sell some more today. I can feel it."

Damn, she sounded like a pro. "Leave at least one for me, okay?" We both laughed a little. Her smile was alive and friendly.

"What the hell was going on in here last night?" she asked innocently.

"You mean while you were writing that deal with the old guy?"

"Yeah."

I couldn't believe she didn't know. I started to answer, but we were distracted by some of the other salesmen who stumbled in and began to gather—around her mostly—and put on their grandest displays. They looked at me pretty much the way they looked at a cold sore.

"In your dreams," she answered to a couple of them who tried some wise-ass stuff—you know, that suggestive, leering macho shit they tried with all the chicks around the dealership. She took it right in stride though, spitting it back out and putting them in their rightful place. She said it in a certain way though, not with that arrogant I'm-a-woman, hear-me-roar type crap. She was sly, confident, funny, tough, and demure, all at the same time. Rita had carved out her territory in a hurry, and the guys had already figured out that she could give them a run for their money. She was no ordinary chick, I thought. Even Big Tony gave the woman her due. I wondered why a girl like her wanted to be in the car business, in Jamaica yet. My curiosity was short lived as Big Tony rose and stood on the tower as if he was standing on Mount Olympus.

"Everybody up," he roared.

"It's time for today's blessing," I said to Rita as we gathered like peons, hoping for a sign that it was going to be a good day. It started out innocently enough with Big Tony handing out the vouchers for that week's deals.

"I got three," Rita squealed as she came back waving the slips of paper under my nose.

Everyone groaned when Big Tony said, "Nice going." He wouldn't have said shit to any of us. No one else got three, though. I got two, and saw that I'd held a decent amount on both of them, but I still didn't feel comfortable because Big Tony had the look. We all knew the look, and I got the feeling that if I didn't sell a car that day, he would shoot me.

Instead of thundering off the walls, however, his kept his voice low and calm, disturbingly so. "Things are going to change around this dealership," he said. "We're gonna stop treating you shitheads like the pansy-asses that you are, and we're gonna sell some fuckin' cars. Now, I want you bastards to work these maggots harder."

"What's wrong with him?" Rita whispered.

"Ssshhhh," I hissed softly. "If you value your life." I was only half kidding.

"Hey boss," said Rosie, a salesman. "You don't have to go callin' us names, for Christ's sake."

You could tell Rosie had his ass up on his shoulders. He was pretty hot. Big Tony's slick hair gleamed in the light from the huge picture windows. I was afraid for Rosie.

"Rosie," said Big Tony. "If you don't sell a fuckin' car today, you're fired."

"I told you," I whispered to Rita.

Eugene Thompson called bravely from among the gathered. "This ain't no way to be treatin' us, boss. You go ahead and fire my black ass if you have a mind to, but I gotta say what I gotta say!"

Another salesman shook a finger at Big Tony. It was Juan Hernandez, meek little Juan. "You need to be givin' us a little more respect, Big Tony. Don't you go callin' us names, or I come up there and pound your motherfuckin' face you talk to me like that again!"

Holy shit! It was getting ugly. No, it wasn't getting ugly it was ugly. All of the salesmen were yelling, bravery in their lungs, their momentum gathering like the wind of a tropical storm that was circling around Big Tony. A couple of them walked to the base of the tower and starting shouting obscenities up at Big Tony. I mean they were hot! For some reason, I reached out and tried to stop them, but I felt a hand on my arm. It was Rita. She shook her head, and her eyes were steady as rivets. There was some sort of understanding there, and it was like she was telling me that they were big boys, and that I should tend to my own business.

Suddenly, in full view of everyone, Patty's yellow Corvette sailed onto the lot. Behind her, a long black limo slammed to a stop, followed by a blue and white New York City police car. For a second, I thought someone at the meeting had called the cops. The doors to all three cars opened at the same time, and all the fuss inside the showroom came to an abrupt halt.

Patty jumped out of the Corvette dressed in—what was that, a suit? That lawyer guy, Paul something, I remembered, got out of the limo, followed by the Queen Mother, who strode purposefully toward the entrance. The two cops were close behind, inserting night sticks into their belts as they walked. Their footfalls echoed in a rough cadence in the sudden silence of the showroom.

I watched, stunned, as we all were, I think, while the Queen Mother climbed the tower, setting her handbag down on the desk like it meant something. She turned, her nose not a foot away from Big Tony's. I couldn't believe what happened.

"Mister DeLorenzo," she said, holding out her hand. "Your keys." Clearly, there wasn't going to be any discussion in an office someplace.

It took a second for Big Tony to realize what she was saying. Then suddenly, he looked like he was going to explode. The cops climbed the tower, hands on their nightsticks.

Big Tony snarled, clearly understanding what would happen if he didn't comply. Slowly, he reached down and undid the leather strap on his hip. He didn't say a word. No one did. I don't know if anyone was even breathing. I know I wasn't. He slammed the keys violently on the desk, actually breaking a chunk of wood off the top of it. Then, he pulled on his jacket, taking his time as he adjusted his cuffs and cinched his tie, and walked past the Queen Mother, looking her straight in the eye.

My heart was pounding like I'd run a marathon. I looked around at the other faces and noticed a vein pulsing in Delmo's forehead. With the officers right behind him, Big Tony paused at the door, and I thought he was going to scream some obscenity or something, but he didn't. Instead, he blew a kiss, and then hawked a spit wad onto the showroom floor where it landed with a plop. The cops said something and pointed to the avenue with their nightsticks. Big Tony just walked off and hailed a cab, never even acknowledging Patty's existence.

The Queen Mother cleared her throat, drawing everyone's attention. My eyes were riveted as Patty took the keys.

"Things are going to change around here," said Patty.

Just then, the hhhssshh of the showroom door sounded in the silence of the moment, and Max Holtzman casually came through carrying a paper and a cup of coffee.

"Mister Holtzman," Patty bellowed. "I want to see you in your office—now."

Holtzman sure looked confused.

Chapter 46... Eighty Cars a Month

For me, the following day, Sunday, was a contemplation of, like, life, the history of mankind, whether or not Jupiter was aligned with Mars, and whether I was ever going to get a piece of ass again.

I still had a hard time believing Big Tony got fired. Big Tony was the dealership. Sure, he was mean, and arrogant, but you knew that, and you learned how to play his game. You knew exactly how hard to push your maggots before you did a T-O—that's a turn-over—and brought them to the tower where you played good guy/bad guy. Of course, Big Tony was the bad guy. He always insulted you for the thin deal that was on the table, and how dare you bother him when there was no more room in the price to negotiate. Of course, there was room, but playing good guy/bad guy did two things: it made the maggot feel sorry for you, and it made the maggot think he was getting a great deal. That's the way negotiating went. Big Tony knew that, of course, and you, the salesman—excuse me, now it was salesperson—took the brunt of his hostility in order to get the maggot over to your side. When Big Tony purposely left the tower, and he always did, you popped the question again, usually saying to the maggot, "This is as good as it's going to get. If you want the car, this is the price. Do you want it, or not?" If the maggot wanted the car, and you said it in a nice voice, usually you got a, "Yeah, sure, what the heck," or something similar. Another close, and another maggot squashed.

There were times when I didn't like that little game, especially with little old ladies, or real poor people, but that's the way it was. I knew it, the other salesmen—ah, salespersons—knew it, and we all knew how to play. With Big Tony gone, we didn't know what the hell was going to happen, especially after the rest of that meeting. I remember exactly how it went.

Holtzman went back into the F & I office to stew a little, obviously a little miffed. The Queen Mother turned to us salespersons, and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, shit happens." She stood on the tower like a tall, thin monument, looking like one of those carvings on the bow of an old schooner, chin out, eyes wide, nose pointed steadfastly into the wind and the waves. Not even a hurricane—and we'd just been through one—would move her from that position. She continued with her short-but-direct speech. "As you may, or may not know, Fairchild MotorCars has been losing money for some time. Unfortunately, something drastic had to happen. From what Mister Barrons and my accountants tell me, we need to push out at least eighty cars a month, not counting used cars, in order to make this dealership profitable. I believe in being up front with you... yadda, yadda, yadda...."

I looked around at that point, and noticed that half the salespersons were standing with their mouths open, while the rest were examining their shoes, except for Rita. She was taking notes.

"... and I'm afraid the performance of this property has to improve."

There was no or else, which is what I expected, but by the way she said the word property, I got the distinct impression that the dealership was like one of those little green houses on a Monopoly board. It could go at any time, replaced by a red hotel.

"... and from now on, my daughter Patricia will be the general manager of Fairchild MotorCars." The Queen Mother turned and gave Patty a ceremonious handshake, and Big Tony's keys, then stepped gallantly from the tower with Paul Barrons. The Queen Mother had spoken, and so it was. The limo whisked them away.

Patty turned to us nimrods, tall, thin, and erect like her mother, her clothes clearly expensive and perfectly tailored. Her voice came out like the crack of a whip. "We will no longer call our customer maggots," she said, her hands animated. "We will no longer cheat, and lie, and resort to unprofessional methods in order to close deals. And another thing, we will no longer close deals. We will complete transactions—professionally, and courteously."

Billy sucked up a noseful of scorn. "Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath. "Next we'll be serving them fucking tea and cookies." I wondered if anyone besides me heard it. I looked around. Rita did. She was still writing. What the hell was she writing?

Patty continued for some minutes. We got the message. We were going to become some sort of Macy's for cars—nice, professional, caring, and understanding. What a load of crap that was. This was the car business! This was a hard-nosed business! You had to be tough, tougher than shoe leather to be in the car business. The maggots tried to kick you around, and you kicked them back. Whoever kicked the hardest won the deal. That's how it worked. That's the way it had always worked, wasn't it? Of course it was. The Macy's of cars? Right. According to her, we were going to revolutionize the auto shopping experience—like that was the first thing the pimps and the crack dealers thought about when they came in looking at Jags.

Chapter 47... Three Things

Well, I finished contemplating the meaning of the universe on Sunday, then I went out and shot some hoops and drank half a dozen beers with some buddies while we watched the Yankees get their asses kicked by the Red Sox. But on Monday the thoughts came back as I rode the F train to Parsons Boulevard and sat next to some fat guy who smelled like he'd brought his own salami. Life had to get better than that, I thought.

When I got to the showroom, it was just Rita and me there. I guess some of the guys had decided to test the limits right away because three of them had called in sick. The showroom looked different somehow, cleaner maybe, and it smelled different. It didn't have that new car and cigarette smell anymore. It was replaced by... what was that? It smelled like bread, or something.

Patty was in the tower, wearing another suit, and Rita was at her desk on salesmen's—geez, salespersons'—row. She handed me a cup of coffee from The Pizza Palace.

"You know, somehow I had the feeling you'd be the first one in. You take just cream in your coffee, right? No sugar."

"How'd you know that?"

"I'm an observant person."

Her eyes were bright and shiny, enthusiastic you might say. "I saw that. What were you writing on Saturday, when Big Tony got fired?" She knew exactly what I meant.

"Just some observations. I wonder if the runs will continue."

My sphincter tightened. "Runs?" I asked, trying to look innocent. Before she could respond, my mind switched gears—you know, the way a nervous mind does, thinking about sixty different things in about two seconds.

"You know," she responded. "The runs?" It was like she knew that I knew, and there was no sense in playing games about it. She gave me the courtesy of letting me act dumb, however. "I also heard Big Tony worked some deals himself and had salesmen deliver the cars for a slice of the commission. Sounds like some pretty easy money to me. You ever get a piece of one of those deals?"

"Where'd you hear about that?" I asked nervously.

"Here and there. Things like that get around, you know what I mean?"

Of course I did, but I didn't let on.

"I wonder how much he skimmed off, working things on the side like that."

I took the top off the coffee and I blew on it, buying myself a moment. Even if what Rita was saying was common knowledge, I was smart enough not to associate myself with all that stuff, even if I had partaken a bit. I mean, it was just that I needed the money.

"I see you've been to The Pizza Palace," I said, reading the cup and making a weak attempt at changing the subject.

"Best gyros in Queens," she said.

"How'd you know that?" Damn, I thought, it was creepy how much she knew. She knew about the Sunday runs, even though she wasn't exactly sure as to what they were about; she knew the streets like the back of her hand; she knew about The Pizza Palace; and, she knew cars inside out.

I remembered how on Saturday this old heap limped onto the lot and a scruffy old dude came in saying he wanted to trade it. I had no idea what it was. She did. It was an old Studebaker Starliner. How'd she know that? I'd barely even heard of Studebaker, never mind knowing that they made a model called a Starliner. That car must've been thirty years old, at least. It might have been older than me.

"Big Tony ever toss you one of his deals?" she asked, persisting.

"Me. No, never." I dropped it right there with that lie.

"What about one of those cash deals?" she asked. She was real nonchalant about it.

Good thing Chita came through the door just then, snaking her way between the cars back to the F & I department. Rita waved, and Chita waved back, her eyes darting and focusing on me for a couple of long seconds before she turned away.

"I like her," said Rita. "Sharp chick."

Chick? I thought.

"I hear you two got a thing going. That true?"

I kind of gurgled into my coffee. "Hhumph. That's news to me," I said. Thank God Rita had changed the subject, but that was one more thing that rang a bell with me. She'd only been at the dealership for little more than a week. How'd she know that?

"She worked here long?" Rita asked, her head down, shuffling papers from one side of her desk to the other.

You know that feeling of uneasiness, that grumbling you get way down deep in the pit of your stomach when you know you're about to get caught doing something bad? For some reason, I had it right then, but I hadn't done anything to deserve it. Maybe it was because of all the changes, I rationalized. Maybe it was not knowing what to expect with Patty in charge. That had to be it, and I'm sure some of the other salesmen felt like I did, except for Billy. Then, I thought, maybe it was because of Billy that I felt that way. He was the one who'd forced me into those weird Sunday runs, after all. It was his fault. In any case, the conversation with Rita was like walking on eggs. "You sure are asking a lot of questions this morning," I said.

"Just interested," she replied, averting my gaze. "I'm just trying to find out about the place. I kind of like it here. I might plan to stay a while if I can make some money. Too bad the gravy train will probably come to an end, but it should be interesting from here on out." She jerked her head toward the tower where Patty was barking something at one of the Nigerian guys from the paint shop.

Rita radiated a confidence that I didn't feel, which probably had something to do with Patty, I figured. They were both women, after all; they probably trusted each other. As for us guys, we would probably become... what? Scum, I guess. Maybe that's why I felt so uneasy. It wasn't Billy after all. It was the old man/woman thing. "Yup. Should be real interesting," I said.

Rita's eyes suddenly darted to the windows, taking my attention there as well. I recognized the Porsche immediately. It was the one Tommy Lee had traded. It rolled through the barbed-wired gate, and Sonny Olanzo hopped out and made his way to the showroom, followed shortly by boom boom, ta ta boom. I guess Sonny had decided to drive the Porsche for a while before selling it. You couldn't blame him; sweet wheels. Seeing Holly's slutty attire—striped satin hot pants up the crack of her ass, and a halter top—I thought briefly about pot roast and felt a little tingle down there. Boom boom, ta boom!

Sonny looked around, looking very uneasy. Coming over, he asked abruptly, "Where the hell is Big Tony? Nobody showed up yesterday."

I looked at Rita before responding, and I wondered if she knew what Sonny meant by yesterday. Hell, she knew everything else. Her face got real serious all of a sudden.

"Big Tony got fired," I said, motioning toward the tower, and Patty.

Sonny looked up, then back, and said, "What the fuck happened?"

His voice must have attracted Patty's attention because she called from the tower immediately. "Mister Olanzo. May I see you when you're done, please?"

Sonny looked at me, quite bewildered, and I saw my chance to escape. I shrugged and walked away, figuring he'd get all the gory details soon enough. I hadn't checked my cubbyhole yet, so I thought I'd go back and do so, and maybe wrangle a good morning from Chita at the same time. I noticed that she looked pretty good when she'd walked by earlier, but she seemed to sense that something was different. Like Sonny, she wasn't at the dealership on Saturday—had a wedding to go to—so I told her what happened. She wasn't exactly heartbroken over it.

"Good," she said. "Maybe now we'll get rid of the rest of the creeps around here."

Who's we? I thought, hoping I wasn't one of the creeps, but I felt perhaps like a half-creep. "You should've seen it," I said.

"He got what he deserved," she said. "What goes around comes around."

She seemed to be in a good mood, having come off a nice weekend at a cousin's wedding, so I figured I'd change the subject and not bring her down with dealership stuff. Her hair had obviously been done over, and it swirled in glowing, dark brown waves, clean looking. I wanted to feel it. She wore one of those tight, precise outfits I liked so much—you know, everything pressed and tucked just perfectly, short skirt, sexy. The collar was turned up on her crisp cotton shirt, and her neck looked soft and creamy. I got excited just thinking about how it must have smelled. I felt that I needed to be on my best behavior. "Did you go with anybody to the wedding?" I asked.

She smiled a smirky little smile. "Still trying, eh Carmen?"

"How about lunch," I asked, taking a chance.

"Maybe."

Well, a flicker of warmth again. I smiled, but said nothing further for fear that I'd fuck things up if I kept flapping my gums. I left the F & I office feeling good, my guilt gone, or at least in the closet for a while; it's amazing what a little female attention can do for you. I checked the up list when I hit the showroom; why, I don't know, seeing as it was just Rita and me; habit, I guess, but three things happened right then that eventually proved to be kind of interesting.

First, who do I see talking like they were best friends? Why, our demure receptionist, Tanisha, and boom boom boom ta ta boom, with the hot pants up her crack. I just knew Tanisha was asking her, like maybe, how to swallow a hydrant or something, and the thought of eavesdropping excited the hell out of me. The curiosity was too much to bear. I walked by, close enough to overhear without either of those airheads noticing.

"I saw your movie," said Tanisha, "and I loved it. How do you do that?" she asked, touching her throat.

Holly was proud, and I was dying to hear her response, but what distracted me was the second thing that happened. Sonny's substantial form came streaking across the showroom, and he was hot, hot, hot! He blew right past me, grabbing boom boom ta boom boom by the hand—roughly, I might add—but before he bolted for the door he turned and plowed a cowboy-booted right foot into the side of a brand-new Jag. So much for that paint job.

Rita was outside, checking out the Porsche. That was the third thing.

Chapter 48... Just Being Stupid

It was another Monday, a week after Sonny's attack on the Jag, and the whole week had been bad brother at the dealership. In my opinion, it was mostly because the guys were being, well, buttheads, quite frankly. While I had my doubts about Fairchild MotorCars becoming the Macy's of the car business, I had to admit that Patty sure made the experience a lot more pleasant for the customers—they weren't maggots anymore—and for the salespeople, too. At least she did the first real week of her tenure. The air was different inside the showroom, healthier somehow. Even the food tasted better.

I think Billy was late almost every day, and he acted like a real jackass. He walked in with this defiant look on his face and a cigarette usually dangling from his lip, which worsened the situation as Patty had banned smoking inside the showroom. It was like he was saying, "I'm your top book. You wouldn't dare do anything to me." That Monday, the 29th of July, it followed the same pattern. Billy waltzed in around 11:00 o'clock. I didn't think Patty noticed. Incorrectamundo.

About thirty seconds after Billy sat down and put up his feet up, his phone buzzed. It wasn't hard to determine that it was Patty because he slammed the phone down with a nasty, "Fuck that bitch!" Anyway, he went up to the tower where, unlike any discussion with Big Tony, things seemed pretty calm. I watched out of the corner of one eye, which was glued to the lack of action. Patty asked him to sit and they... talked. Can you believe it? But I don't think it was a very good talk as far as Billy was concerned. He was not a happy camper when he came off the tower.

"What happened?" I asked. His jaw muscles had set up like cement.

"The bitch told me to stop trying to antagonize her."

Well, that sounded reasonable to me, and I didn't respond. I think Billy was expecting me to console him because he had this expectant look on his face.

"She said if we do battle, I'd lose—the bitch."

"Well then, don't do battle." The solution seemed pretty simple to me.

"Sounds like you're taking her side, Madrid."

I mean, I just knew it was going there. "I'm not taking anyone's side," I said. "I think maybe she can't afford to back down right now, to anyone, especially a salesman. Just go with the flow, man. Just sell some cars. She's making deals for me, and she'll make 'em for you too if you give her half a chance."

Billy gave me one of those sarcastic faces, like the only reason I'd sold any cars that week was because they were gimmes, or something, which they weren't. It kind of irritated me.

"I ain't gonna suck up to that bitch."

Anyone could see he was intent on picking a fight, and I just gave him an exasperated hands-up. "You don't have to suck up. Just do what you're supposed to do. She's not asking for any more. I'm telling you Billy, you screw around and you're history, top book or not." Delmo came up.

"Hey Delmo," Billy called, clearly fed up with me. "Did you ever call Big Tony to see what was going on?"

I just stood there, probably looking like an idiot. I didn't quite understand. Why call Big Tony? Didn't these two dopes see what was going on? Big Tony had screwed up, and he was gone. It was simple. What was there to find out?

"Never got a hold of him," said Delmo. "Just kept getting his machine."

"What do we need Big Tony for?" I asked, trying to be logical. "She's putting cars over the curb."

Billy and Delmo gave themselves a knowing little glance, the kind kids give each other when the dorky kid tries to be part of the group. Clearly, I'd been left out of something.

"Cars ain't how you make money around here," said Delmo.

I didn't know Delmo was involved in any of that stuff.

"We need Big Tony back," said Billy. "He'll bring Sonny back into the picture, too."

"You guys aren't seeing this clearly," I argued, figuring: what the hell; these two clowns weren't doing me any favors. "Big Tony isn't coming back, and neither is Sonny."

"What if something happens to Ms. Fairchild?" Delmo asked ominously.

Delmo's question gave me a little chill. We locked eyes, and his were a sea of white in their sockets, ghostlike. "What could possibly happen?" I asked, and Delmo just walked away.

"You better watch your ass," said Billy. "He can be a real bad dude when he wants to be."

Delmo? Get real, I thought, wondering if I'd just been given some type of warning. I sat on the edge of Billy's desk, debating whether or not I should be pissed off, when Rita came by carrying one of those cardboard drink trays and a bag from The Pizza Palace. She headed straight for the tower, handing one of the cups to Patty.

"Look at 'em," said Billy snidely. "Just a couple 'a cunts."

There was no need for that, but I figured Billy was just ticked because he wasn't the favorite son anymore and he could keep his fucking mouth shut.

Chita came out of the back, went to the tower to join Patty and Rita, and took some food from the bag. She stood up there for a few seconds, making small talk, I guess, and I could see them laughing and giggling, you know, the way girls do when they're together. It was just girl stuff, but Billy didn't think so.

"There they are," he said hatefully. "The three muffkateers. It's like a damned pussy parade up there."

"You know, Billy," I said. "Sometimes you can be so ignorant that I want to reach out and slap you upside your stupid fucking head."

Chapter 49... Billy Takes a Car

Business was brisk that week, and I was busy with maggots—excuse me, I mean customers; old habit—almost the entire time. Patty kept the sales chart that Big Tony had put up in the lounge, and I pulled to the front of the pack when my little horse moved three blocks in three days. I mean, I was really cooking. It was Friday, August 2nd, and I'd rolled twenty cars over the curb for July, including two expensive Mark VIIs, a Jaguar XJ6, and a Corvette. I felt cool; I looked cool; the other salespersons were talking about me. That's how I wanted to feel. That's why I'd gone into sales. I wondered how come I'd never had that kind of luck with Big Tony. Patty told me to simmer down once. "Don't be so cocky," she said. "Remember, watch, learn, and listen. That's all you gotta do."

I was telling Rita about my last deal—excuse me, I mean transaction. I don't know where she came from, but this rich white woman, an older sort, had come specifically to Fairchild MotorCars to buy a car. I mean this woman was loaded. You know the kind: dress, hat, shoes, and handbag to match. She even smelled like money. Patty knew her. The lady didn't actually do any talking. No one did really. The woman simply went up and sat in the tower, and after a while Patty called the next salesperson up—me, luckily—handed me a sales order, and told me to write up the transaction. Cool, I thought. Twenty minutes later, a shiny, burgundy Lincoln Town Car pulls up in front of the showroom, and one of the guys from get-ready hands the keys to Patty. She hands them to the rich lady, who hands them to her driver, and there she goes: dress, hat, shoes, handbag, and car, to match.

"So, lunch is on you," said Rita, smiling after I told her the story. I think she was a little jealous.

"Sure," I said. "Gyros?"

"Let's do it," she said.

Now, Rita and I had gone to lunch together a few times, but it's not what you think. We talked about the dealership mostly. I mean, the woman was pretty focused, and she'd never made any indication, none, that she was interested in anything other than selling cars. Still, going to lunch with her was kind of fun, as was she. She knew a lot about a lot stuff.

We walked back into the showroom after lunch belching gyro fumes, when Billy blew past cursing a blue streak, the gist of which was, "Fuck Patty," this, and "Fuck Patty," that. We both figured it was a continuation of his ongoing self-righteous tirade, which we'd talked about at lunch. Rita had seemed interested in it for some reason, among other things that were happening around the dealership. I almost told her what Delmo had said a couple of days earlier about something happening to Patty, but I figured it was all a bunch of hot air, and I let it pass.

Cursing all the way, Billy slaps a dealer plate on the back of a brand-new maroon Impala and peels off the lot up Jamaica Avenue. Neither of us knew anything about it besides what we'd just seen, and I didn't bother to ask any questions about it. Personally, I didn't really care what was happening with Billy right then, although, like I said, Rita seemed interested, for some reason. In any case, a couple of hours later I spotted Billy as he tools back onto the lot, in a cab this time. He struts into the showroom, straight to the tower, and angrily slams a block of cash down on the mahogany desk in front of Patty.

"There's the fucking money," he snarled, really arrogantly. It was clear that he wanted everyone to hear, and he literally spat the words through his teeth.

From my desk, you remember, the last one on salespersons' row, right near the tower, I watched as Patty looked up, her lips a thin white line. They barely moved. "Where's the fucking sales order?" she asked.

Billy reached into his jacket pocket and slammed the sales order down next to the money.

"Take it back to Holtzman," she said.

Chapter 50... The Blade Falls Again

"Did you hear what happened?" Rita asked.

Looking at her, I said, "You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet. Have you been up all night?"

"Gee, thanks."

"Well, you do."

"Gee, thanks again. I appreciate it." She stretched an eye, looking at her reflection in a car window and pulling on an unruly tuft of hair. It didn't help.

I checked out her clothes. It wasn't her usual look. "Are those the same clothes you wore yesterday?" She rubbed her eyes as if there was a cup of sand in them, and gave me a look indicating that I didn't need to ask about her appearance anymore. "So what happened?" I asked, getting back to her original question.

"Holtzman got canned."

"Really?"

"Really." She was still fussing with the hair. "Ooohh!" she said. Boing! went the hair.

"When?"

"When what?"

"When did Holtzman get fired? Are you with it, or what?"

"I'm with it, I'm with it," she said twice as if she were trying to convince herself. "Yesterday," she answered, pulling at yet another spike on her head. "Hand me that, will ya?"

She was pointing to a rather large leather handbag, tan-colored, sitting on the floor next to her desk. The darned thing weighed a ton.

"What the hell have you got in here?" I asked, dropping it on the desk. It made a thud like there was a tire jack inside.

She reached in and extracted another small bag. It was one of those little quilted things that women use to carry lipstick and stuff. She snapped it open and rotated a little mirror in front of her face. "Oh, God," she said.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, what happened with Holtzman? You want some coffee or something?"

"I'd love some coffee. You going?"

"Yeah, I'll go. Tell me what happened first."

"I'm not quite sure, but I think Chita knows something about it. At least that's what I heard from the guys. They're pretty pissed off again."

"Why would they be pissed? They hated Holtzman's guts."

"I have no idea, but I heard they were pissed at her too."

"Why?"

"Don't know that either," she said. A line of lipstick went onto the lower lip. "Why don't you go find out? I'm kind curious myself."

"Is she here today?"

"I saw her talking to Patty."

I glanced at the tower. Patty was up there, alone, busy being busy.

"How about that coffee?" said Rita. "Here, I'll buy if you fly." She flipped open the flap to the tan handbag and took out an alligator women's wallet. "Get me a large," she said, handing me a couple of bucks. "Black."

I noticed that, along with the alligator wallet, she'd taken out another black wallet, smaller, but she'd put it back immediately. Two wallets? Maybe one was for loose change.

"Well?" she said, mashing her lips together and rubbing them with her pinky.

"Well what?" She looked better already.

"Well, you gonna sit there all damned day, or you gonna get the damned coffee?"

She snapped the lipstick case closed, and that's when I found out why the handbag was so heavy. She opened it again to put the cosmetic bag back, and there, clear as day, I saw the gun, a black one, big-looking.

"Yeah... yeah, sure. I'll get the coffee... right away. Black, you said?"

"Black. A large."

"Right—black and large." Like the gun, I thought.

Chapter 51... Walking In The Rain

It was coming down cats and dogs, but I walked anyway even though it would take close to an hour. It was one of those cool mornings in New York, but you could tell it was going to be steamy by the end of the day and you'd feel the sweat rolling down your back. I hoped my dad would be in one of his good moods and decide to use the air conditioners in the house. Sometimes he wouldn't. "Damn electricity costs too much," he said sometimes, and he'd sit there with beads on his brow rather than spend the ninety cents it probably cost to run the air conditioners for the day. But, that was the way he was, and he was never going to change. He'd grown up poor, you see.

The rain was warm, and it felt good on my bare legs. My sneakers got soaked but I didn't care. I splashed along carelessly with the rain pattering down on my striped golf umbrella. The umbrella was perfect for that kind of day—huge and stiff, its curved spines forming a little dry sanctuary against the storm. The sound of the huge drops drowned out almost everything except the shooshing noise of the cars as they passed on the wet pavement of Junction Boulevard. I took a right onto Corona Avenue and continued until it hooked up with National Street right near the Long Island Railroad, then I hung another right onto Roosevelt Avenue.

I wondered what Mom would serve for the Sunday dinner. Paella, I hoped. My mom made the best paella in the world, rich, and yellow in color, with big clams and shrimp, and chicken so tender it would fall off the bone. The recipe had been handed down from her mother's mother's mother in Spain, and I remembered how my mom always pulled out an old, yellowed handwritten sheet of paper whenever she made it to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything, even though she'd been making paella for forty years. I could eat tons of it, and so could my dad. It was amazing how much we could put away.

The rain began coming down even harder, and I could almost hear the trees sucking water through the breaks in the sidewalk. There were only a few brave souls out on the street, and even the fronts of the churches were barren. I passed Saint Elizabeth's on Roosevelt Avenue. It wasn't our church. We went to Saint Bartholomew, but as I looked at the sad white statue—of Saint Elizabeth, I assume—I remembered that somewhere, sometime, I'd found out that Saint Elizabeth's was Chita's parish. I knew she lived in Corona, not far from my parents' house probably, but I didn't know where. I should find out, I thought.

I looked at my watch and noted that I was only ten minutes from my destination. I spent the time absorbed in thought, captivated by the rain like a little kid, except that my thoughts were way more serious. I thought about Patty and the dealership, and Billy, and Delmo, and I kept wondering why Rita had a gun in her purse.

As I turned the corner at 113th Street and 37th Avenue, half a block from my parents' house, it dawned on me that I hadn't brought anything, so I backtracked to the A & P food store two blocks down.

When I knocked on the door to the house, my mother answered with my father close behind. I stepped inside and noticed that it was cool, and I heard the hum of the air conditioner in the window. My mom made a fuss over me, as usual, and disappeared with my dripping umbrella, while my father took the wine I'd brought. He whistled when he took it out of the bag.

"Hey Carmen," he said. "This is some expensive wine."

"What the hell," I said. "You only live once."

We sat, mom cooked, my dad got a corkscrew and poured three glasses. He was in a good mood. "So Carmen," he said. "You got Big Tony's job yet at the dealership?"

I wondered why he asked that, and I figured he was just making small talk. Surely, he couldn't have known. "Not yet," I said, "but I'm working on it." For a split second, I convinced myself that I was going places.

"That's good," my father said as he clinked my glass. "To success. That's what it's all about, eh son?"

I returned the toast. "To success," I said as I drank and pulled back my damp hair. I waited. I could tell it was time for a short sermon. My dad always gave these little snippets of advice, and it was always about the same thing.

"You do good in sales, Carmen," he told me. "That's where the money is. You don't want to be a grease monkey like I was all my life. You need to make something out of yourself, be a big shot. Go for the good things in life."

My mother came over and lifted her glass. "Don't leave me out," she said, holding her glass up for a little clink. We all clinked again and we drank, just a little.

"Mom, that smells wonderful. What are you making?"

"Your favorite, paella."

Life was good.

"So," my father said, "have you bought any new furniture to replace all that old stuff in that apartment of yours?"

It was a question that was bound to come. "No, Dad, not yet, but soon, when I get my next commission check. I think it'll be a big one."

"Good," said my father.

"So," my mom said. "Did you find a girlfriend yet?" It was another question that always came somewhere along the way.

"No, Mom, not yet."

"What happened to that girl you told us about last time. What was her name? Conchita? She sounded very nice," my mom said, mom-like.

"Charristida, Mom. Her real name is Charristida, but everyone calls her Chita. She still works at the dealership."

"It would be nice for you to find a girlfriend, Carmen honey. Why don't you ask her out some more? She sounded very nice." My mother said very nice with that tone. You know that tone.

"In due time, Mom. Okay? In due time." The paella started to sizzle and my mom went to the stove, thank God.

"Don't worry about the women," my dad said, winking. "You make the money, and there will be plenty of women. Important men always have women. That's the way it is. You'll find that out someday when you're running the place. So, what's going on at the dealership?"

"You wouldn't believe it," I said. "Big Tony got fired a couple of weeks ago, and now we've got a woman running the place."

"A woman? Really?"

"Really."

"That's interesting. So, what's in it for you?"

Chapter 52... The Process

After that Sunday with my folks, things rocked right along at the dealership. We saw a bit of the Queen Mother during that time. She and her lawyer friend dropped in with some suits to look the place over a few times, and everyone talked in hushed tones. I wondered if anyone besides me knew what was going on. I figured surely Patty knew. She tried to act unconcerned, but it didn't work. Whenever the Queen Mother was there, I think Patty disappeared into the ladies' room to heave her guts. To me, at least, it became apparent that the dealership was Patty's little toy; the Queen Mother was interested in other things.

Patty had hardened quickly to the realities of the car business. The hours were long, and the customers were often less than pleasant to deal with. Almost all of them came in and tried to beat us down on price. That was expected. But some of them did it with that condescending, holier-than-thou, I'm-better-than-you attitude. God, I hated that. Anyone with any smarts knew that dealers had to make some profit, or they wouldn't sell the car—pure and simple. Once that fact was on the table, it was a question of how much the profit would be, and that depended on a lot of things: how sales were going, whether the car was a good seller, whether the sales manager had gotten laid lately, even the weather. A good negotiator played the game patiently, and respectfully. The nasty ones got treated nasty in return and eventually left, cursing and telling you what a jerky place the dealership was. I'm sure that's how the concept of customers being maggots got started.

Like I said, Patty learned to take that all in stride. She learned to read customers quickly just by observing their body language. Curiosity, Interest, Desire, Acquisition: those were the four stages of the process, she said. We'd never heard about the four stages when Big Tony was there. Our job, she told us, was simply to elevate the customer to the next highest stage in the process. That sounded a little cosmic for the car business.

"If they're in the curious stage," she told us at our meetings, "they're not going to buy a car today, no matter what. They haven't accumulated enough information to make an intelligent decision yet, so don't try to hammer them into F & I if they're just curious."

Now, that's not what we'd been told by Big Tony. He insisted on arm-twisting our maggots into signing on the dotted line the very first time around. Objecting to the price, it seemed, was a very strong signal of desire, according to Patty. So, she said, if they object to the price, ignore it. It means they want the car. It made sense. Why would anyone quibble over the price of something unless they were interested in acquiring it? Patty knew that somehow, and she'd never been in the car business before. I didn't know that; Billy didn't know that; and I'm sure Big Tony didn't know it either.

"How you gonna ignore the fucking question?" smart-assed Billy asked at one of her daily morning mini-meetings, a new practice she'd instituted.

Very clearly, and very patiently, Patty said, "Well, Billy, you tell them there's plenty of time to work on the price, but first you gotta make sure they like the car because they're going to be driving it for a long time. You know, Billy, get them from curious to interested. You can do that, can't you Billy? A sales pro like you?" Patty's face didn't indicate she meant that as a put down, but I'm pretty sure it was.

Well, Patty got her sea legs and we were almost into the second week of August already, and that's when the chart with the horse named Patty went up with a big 100 at the finish line. Believe it or not, the thought crossed my mind that we had a shot at it, and I had recurring visions of a five-thousand-dollar commission check, which I had never achieved to that point. Little did I know that my chances of achieving that lofty goal were going to improve dramatically—perhaps, maybe, possibly.

I was at my desk reading the sports section about how on the previous Saturday some Swedish goober named Uno Lindstron juggled a soccer ball for 13.1 miles—way too much time on his hands, I thought—when Patty called my name over the PA system. Mister Madrid to the tower, please. I looked over the edge of the paper at Billy and saw him giving me the eyeball, and suddenly I felt sorry for him. He gave me a sneer as I passed like I was teacher's pet. I was getting used to it by now, but I still didn't like it, and I think my pity for him was slowly turning into some obvious fuck you, Billy contempt. Anyway, Patty pointed to a chair when I got up to the tower, making the motion the way a confident person would—quick, decisive, to the point. I could tell all that from just the motion of her finger.

She finished what she was doing, removed her glasses, and looked up, open-collared, vibrant, a touch of rouge on her cheeks. She was looking good. "You've been selling some cars, haven't you Mister Madrid?"

I cleared my throat of the frog that was scratching its way out. "A few," I said.

Patty whipped out a piece of paper. It looked like another little chart, a private one. "It's been more than a few, Mister Madrid. I'd say you're on your way to a very big quarter."

I had the feeling I'd done something wrong. "That's okay, isn't it?" Patty cracked a smile. Her teeth were very white and perfectly straight, a rich girl's teeth.

"Yes, Mister Madrid. It's very okay. That's what I wanted to see you about." She leaned back into the plush leather chair and stared aimlessly into the ceiling before she spoke again. When she did, the frog in my throat fell into my stomach. "What would you think about becoming the new sales manager?"

I almost laughed. Actually, I think I did, a little. "Sales manager? Me? You've got to be kidding."

"I'm not kidding at all," Patty said. "The strain of running this place is too much for one person, and I need someone who can help me carry the load."

"Big Tony ran it alone."

"And look where it got him."

Good point. "Why me?"

"Two reasons. First, I think you learn fast. Second... well... do you see anyone else around here who could do it?"

The second reason was hardly as complimentary as the first. "Billy's our top book."

"Billy's a cheat and a liar. That's not the way I want deals made at this dealership."

"But he sells a lot of cars."

"He won't for much longer."

I wondered what that meant. "What about Delmo?"

"I think you'd be better."

"Why?"

Patty did the double-armed ear salute. "Watch, learn, and listen. That's why. Neither Delmo nor Billy, nor anyone else around here is capable of doing that. You're different from these jerks. You're smarter. You get a little cocky sometimes, but you're definitely smarter. You have the right attitude."

I chewed on her words for a second. At first they were hard as a rock, hard to swallow, like stale beef jerky. But the more I thought about it, the softer, better tasting they became. She sure looked determined. "You could go to the outside," I said, trying to justify for myself why she wanted me, of all people.

Patty looked past me, through the showroom windows and made a quick motion with her chin. There, near the fence, between two high vehicles, was a homeless person peeing on a tire. "Not a lot of good candidates in Jamaica," she said.

"So, it's me, or nothing."

She leaned forward with the confidence of a knowing executive. "No, it's not," she said. "I could get someone else if I paid enough money."

"So why don't you?"

"Because." She extended her fingers, one at a time. First finger: "It would take a new person three months to figure out what's going on." Second finger: "Three months to find out who's good, and who's slinging bullshit." Third finger: "Three months to figure out what to do about it." Fourth finger: "Three months to implement their plans. That's a year, and that's too long. We don't have that much time." The fingers again—three of them this time. "You know the dealership, you know the problems, and you know the culture. And..." she added, pausing, "... I think you can do the job." Patty could be very convincing when she wanted to be. She folded her hands and waited.

"What's the rush?"

"We need to turn a profit, otherwise my mother will...." She stopped. "Let's just say we need to turn a profit quickly."

I mulled. "I'm only twenty-three."

"I'm only twenty-five."

"Don't you think that's a little young to be a sales manager? Don't you think maybe we're both a little young?" I was trying to look cool and calm, even though my stomach was doing cartwheels.

It was Patty's turn to mull. "Maybe," she said, not arrogantly. "But we'll work our way through it. I'd prefer to think our youth would enable us to look at things a little differently. You know, not do things a certain way only because that's how they've always been done. I think the car business suffers from that problem very much."

She made sense. A lot of it. I fingered my tie, and thought of a very important question. "What's in it for me?" I asked boldly.

Patty wrote something on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk. She waited smugly.

I looked and made the mental calculations. "That's not much more than I'm making now. It might be less, depending on my commissions. I think I can make that as a salesman."

"So do I," said Patty. "That's your base."

"Base?"

"There's a sales manager override on top of that."

"You mean—"

"Like another commission."

Now we were talking. "How much is that?"

She wrote another number on the paper. "That's a percentage on everything sold at the dealership—new cars, that is. I have someone else in mind for used cars."

I thought for a second. She wanted to do at least a hundred new cars a month. I remembered her little chart with the horses. "But you're going to be working deals too, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"But you said this override is on everything."

"Right."

"Why?"

Patty just held up her hands. "Oh, I don't know. Let's just say it's all in the name of teamwork. You know, that united we stand, divided we fall crap."

I ruminated, I chewed, and I drummed my fingers. I made the mental calculations again.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Don't you think this is a good offer?"

"No, no, not at all—I mean, yes, it is a good offer." It was a great offer, in fact. "It's just that I don't know how the guys will react. You know what I mean, don't you?" I figured she did. She'd just been through it.

Patty came forward a in her chair, hands still folded in front of her. She lowered her chin down close to the surface of the desk, looking me straight in the eye. "Carmen," she said. "Fuck 'em. They wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire."

I thought about that for a second. Her comment held a certain amount of truth—about ninety-nine percent worth. "I'd like to think about it, if you don't mind."

"Sure," she said. "Take all the time you need. Get back to me, say, by tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? I thought you said take all the time I need."

"That is all the time you need," she said, patting the desk and signaling that our little meeting was over. "Looking forward to it." She held out her hand like it was a done deal. "One more thing," she added.

"What's that?"

"You've been in this business for a while, haven't you?"

"I started in the shop when I was eighteen."

"Oh... the shop. Well, anyway, if you know anyone who maybe knows anyone else, or if you run across anything, let me know. I'm looking for a good F & I man."

I thought about that for a second. I turned and buttoned the jacket of my suit as I started down the six steps, then I turned back at the base of the tower. "Does it have to be a man?" I asked.

Chapter 53... Doubts

Well, I took the job, but things didn't go well in River City. It wasn't two minutes after it was announced that I started getting all kinds of shit, especially from Billy. I was up in the tower going over stuff with Patty—you know, like where this was, and where that was—when Billy walks up with his hand in the air, and asks, "May I go to the bathroom?" You know, in that little kid voice. What a jerk, but I let it slide. There was no sense in making more of it than what it was, which was Billy being a supreme dickhead.

Patty said, "If you fire his ass, I'll back you." But I didn't. I thought it would've been a mistake. But letting it slide turned out to be a bigger mistake. If I'd fired his scrawny ass, I wouldn't have suffered through all the nonsense that happened after that. I mean, it was stupid.

The guys brought deals to the tower that didn't have a prayer of being made. Then, when I didn't make them, I got the evil eye. It had to be on purpose, I figured. None of them were that dumb. I even got it from Delmo, who, up to that point, I thought was my friend, or at least my mentor. I'd always tried to be like Delmo: calm and professional, not flamboyant and obnoxious like Billy. Delmo had taught me a lot about selling, but as soon as I became the manager, he turned cold on me. Well, that was just dandy with me. If they wanted to play these little games, fine. I figured I'd let them play it out and it would all blow over. Either that, or I really would fire them if it came right down to it. They had to know who was boss. The only one on my side, it seemed, was Rita, and it must have been obvious because they started giving her a lot of shit too. As usual, she put them in their place, but she wasn't going to put up with their crap forever. It just wasn't worth it. She could get other work, she said, no problem. I believed her.

Me, I didn't have such confidence, or, maybe I wasn't as good at handing out grief as she was. I don't know. I began to have second thoughts. Maybe being the Big Kahuna wasn't what it was cracked up to be. With just a few days left in the month, I went to Patty and told her I thought I'd made a mistake.

"Really? Why do you think that?" she asked. She gave me a razor sharp once over.

I came right out with it. It was embarrassing, but it was the truth. There were times to be a big shot, and there were times not to be. "I'm having trouble controlling the guys."

"You think so?" she asked.

Jesus, was she blind, or something? "Can't you see how they're hassling me all the time? They don't follow directions. They don't get their deals approved before putting their customers into F & I. They don't come in on time, and they disappear off the floor for hours. It's like I'm not even here."

"So you're going to weasel out of it, then?"

"Weaseling out is not the term I'd use."

"It's the one I'd use. I just did."

That wasn't fair, but I swallowed hard. "Maybe I'm not old enough. Maybe I don't have enough experience. I don't know."

"So?" Patty stood like a statue with its arms folded.

"So, can't you do anything about it? Aren't you going to help me?"

"How?"

"I don't know. You're the GM, for Christ's sake. What do you think I should do?" Damn, I thought, was she going to just let me dangle in the breeze?

"Do the same thing you've been doing, Carmen." She put her hands up in that stupid double-armed ear salute again.

"No, don't tell me, watch, learn, and listen, right?" I was starting to get a little pissed.

"You're not seeing the forest for the trees. These people are begging for leadership. You've got to listen to what they're saying. You've got to find a way to wriggle through the weeds, read between the lines. You've got to dig down deep, Madrid, see what you're made of on the inside."

The forest for the trees, wriggle through the weeds.... What the fuck was all that? "You know Patty, that's pretty easy for you to say. You don't have to answer to anyone."

Suddenly her eyes sparked and she took a step forward. I thought she was going to yell at me. Big Tony would have. Instead, she came around and rested a skinny hand on my shoulder. "Carmen," she said, "sometimes it's not all for show. Sometimes you have to decide where to stand and dig in. Only you can decide if this is the time and the place for you."

I felt like slapping the hand away.

"Why don't you think about it for a couple of days," she said. "We're coming to the end of the month and you could start fresh in sales again on the first if you wanted to."

I was glad to hear that, but what she said next made me think twice.

"But you know what I think, Carmen? I think that once you've left their side it would be pretty difficult to get back into their camp. I think you've already made your bed."

She had a point. "Thanks," I said. "I'll think about it." I got up to leave.

"Oh, by the way," she said. "I'm going to take your advice."

"What advice?"

"About the F & I job. I've been pushing the work to Chita Espino, and it seems like she can handle it. I'm going to ask her to be our new F & I manager this afternoon. You were right."

"Good," I said, pleasantly surprised.

I walked down salespersons' row and back into F & I and stole a cup of coffee. I looked at Chita and felt happy for her. I probably would have said something, but she was working with a customer and I went back to the showroom. That's when I noticed Billy and Delmo gathered in a tight circle with Tommy Lee Lawes and his veiny, blue-black girlfriend. I knew immediately what they were talking about. For some reason—maybe it was the conversation with Patty, I don't know—I walked right up to that nefarious little group.

"No cash deals today, okay guys?"

The faces turned to masks, and I could feel the resentment from Billy and Delmo. I turned to Tommy Lee and Lawanda, expecting the same from them, and I got it from Lawanda. I thought she was actually going to growl. Tommy Lee smiled his yellow picket-fence smile and removed his big felt fedora. He came over and put his arm around me like we were best buddies.

"So...." he said, as he guided me toward a private corner for some private words.

I thought he'd bathed in Brut, it was so strong. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rita scurrying between a couple of cars. What the hell was she doing? I wondered, but I didn't get a chance to think about it as Tommy Lee's satin-smooth voice filled my ear.

"I hear you's the new sales manager around this place. Let's me and you talk and see if we kin come to some sort of agreement."

It wasn't a long conversation.

Chapter 54... Any Time, Any Place

That night I closed up as usual. Luckily there weren't any late deals. At 9:05, I darkened the lights inside the showroom and checked the back to make sure the two F & I people had left. They had. I heard a little click and, startled, I noticed the burner to the coffeepot had been left on. Damn that click sounded loud in that stillness. I turned it off.

Back in the showroom, I looked down salesmen's row to see who was hanging around, as I hadn't seen anyone for a while. There were four salesmen on duty that night: Billy—who'd managed not speak to me, not one single word, the entire night—along with Juan, Jimmy, and a new guy named Robert something. The place was as still as a funeral parlor except for the overhead music, which I'd forgotten to turn off. So I went to the back again, to the little closet off the service corridor where the music thing was kept. There was nobody there either. Was I alone? I wasn't supposed to be alone; no one was, ever, at closing time. That could be dangerous. I remembered the entrance door to the showroom was probably still unlocked, and I literally ran up to check it. Good thing. I locked it quickly. I looked into the service lounge next, then through the sliding windows of the parts department. It was darker than dark. I checked the door to the shop. It was locked, just like it was supposed to be as the shop guys went home at six o'clock. I was alone. I heard the hum of the air conditioners on the roof, and their muffled vibrations seemed to touch me. I wondered for a moment if I should adjust the thermostats. Screw it, I thought; I wanted out of there. I stepped back into the showroom and noticed some black kids on the lot, just inside the sliding gates along the avenue. They were looking into one of the car windows. The gates and fence had barbed wire over the top of them, like a the gates in a damned prison camp, but that didn't do a damned bit of good if the gates were open, did it?

"Shit," I said aloud. Usually someone closed the gates at nine o'clock. That's all I needed was to have a bunch of punks from the 'hood out there trying to steal a car. I wondered if I should call 9-1-1, but it wasn't an emergency—yet. I was safe inside, relatively so, unless they decided to smash in the plate glass windows, so I flashed the lights a couple of times just to let them know someone was still inside. I looked out again. There were four of them, young, all dressed in 'hood clothes—you know, those baggy shorts and low black boots they all wear—and they were out there talking 'hood talk and rappin' the way brothers do. I could see the moves.

They saw me and immediately began making signs and motions, about what I didn't know, but I thought I detected the words white dude come through the glass a couple of times. I stood still, hands on hips in the darkened windows. They were just kids horsing around, but there was no sense going out there and confronting them, not in Jamaica. I was just going to call the cops if they started anything, that's what I was going to do, so I just stood there giving off as evil a stare as I could.

I looked beyond them, through the gates, onto the avenue. There wasn't a soul in sight. I detected the word motherfucker a couple of times, and I watched as they moved from that car to another, a Celebrity, I think, and cupped their hands to see what was inside. Okay, that was enough, and I picked up the phone. It might take a while, but I figured surely I could get a cop car to cruise by and get them off the lot so I could close up.

They must have sensed what I was doing, because they threw a few more motherfuckers at me, and after a couple of minutes of posturing and jiving, they pimp-rolled off the lot. Nervously, I set the alarm, stepped outside, and re-locked the entrance door with a seemingly thunderous click. As quickly as I could, I walked, no, ran, through the darkness to the back of the building to where my demo was parked. Getting a demo was one of the perks of becoming sales manager. It wasn't much of a demo, just a small Cavalier, but it was a demo. Thank God, I thought; it beat the hell out of walking out of there in that situation. Thankfully, the area was illuminated by one of the two working spotlights back there. I looked around in the eerie stillness and quickly jumped into the Cavalier, fired it up and drove onto the front lot, dodging and weaving through the parked cars. I looked for the four punks the whole time, but I didn't see them anywhere. Maybe they left. My heart slowed down a little, but the beat was still as powerful as a left hook. I reached the front gate. Those bastards. I was referring to the other salesmen. No one was ever supposed to be alone at closing time, not ever. I'd take care of them the next day, I thought. But I wouldn't, as it turned out.

I slammed the Cavalier into park just on the other side of the gate and quickly opened the door, leaving it open. I looked up the street, then down, seeing no one, anywhere. I didn't feel good about that, but it was better than having the four punks nearby. I grabbed hold of the huge sliding gate and pulled furiously, moving it along as quickly as possible. The half dozen metal guide wheels made a grinding noise on the top pipe, which stretched from one side of the fence opening to the other. I was almost there, just a couple of more feet.

That's when the first punch hammered into my kidney from behind. The pain exploded into my back, and for a second I thought the four punks were attacking me, but I was wrong. Someone, or something, I couldn't tell from the grip, it could have been a gorilla, turned me around. Dazed, I must have made a pretty easy target. The second fist pounded squarely into my gut, which was soft as warm margarine, plowing so deeply into my stomach muscles that I thought it hit my spine. I collapsed into a quivering hulk, heaving and gagging for air. My stomach erupted violently, spilling its contents down the front of my suit. The sound of laughter barely registered as I sat there on my knees, shaking in pain.

Someone pulled me up. Maybe it was two of them, I couldn't tell. "Hey, Mister Sales Manager, let's make a deal."

Another fist, or the end of a baseball bat, something, smashed into my stomach again. The hot, searing pain shot through my body, and I choked on my own fluids. I needed air. I heaved again, this time belching red fluid instead of my dinner. More hands on me, strong, mean hands, like vise grips. Everything was a blur, a red fuzz from the huge red letters of the Fairchild MotorCars sign. Suddenly, the red fuzz disappeared. Someone covered my face, actually my head, with a bag, or a sack, something, I couldn't tell what, but I was in a black hole, dizzy, with pain knifing through my solar plexus. I tried to pull the sack off. There was no air. I heaved into the sack. I had to breathe. Violently, my arms were pinned to the fence.

"A message from Big Tony," a voice said.

"Shut up, you fucking fool!" It was another voice, one I didn't recognize.

I had no thoughts, no brain pattern. The sound of my lungs gasping for life roared inside the bag, and the hot stink of my own body filled my nostrils. The words didn't register. Pinned upright, I waited for the next blow, but it didn't come. Instead, a voice came through the bag. It was close. I would have smelled his breath had my head not been buried in that sack. As it was, the words burned into my brain like a branding iron, a coarse whisper meant for my ears only.

"Get the hell out, mister hotshot sales manager, if you know what's good for you. We can get to you any time, any place. This is the only warning you'll get. Capisce?"

Warning: the word echoed inside the sack. I nodded, inside the bag. I thought I nodded. The voice came back.

"Next time it'll be worse. Much worse." The voice disappeared, and then the punches came. Three of them. I heard my ribs crack. A final one came through the darkness, into my face, but I don't remember if I felt any pain. If I did, it was pain on top of pain, where it turns to numbness. Before I collapsed to the ground, another coarse whisper came through the bag. "Tell Patty she's next."

What I heard and saw next I'll remember for the rest of my life. You know how it is in a dream, when you wake up in the middle of it, sweating like a pig, and the only thing you remember is some tidbit, some inconsequential speck of remembrance? That's how it was then. I was lying on the ground clutching my shattered ribs, thinking I was going to die right then and there, and I heard the scuffling of feet all around me, lots of feet. I remember trying to pull the hood, or sack, or whatever it was off my head, and I saw the shoes on the sidewalk. There were black shoes, and brown shoes, with laces and without, and burgundy shoes, with tassels, loafers to be exact, and the kind with fringed flaps at the instep where the tassels were. They looked new.

Then, I remember hearing a voice, which I thought I recognized, but who knows? It was the voice I'd heard before fists began raining into my body, the one that said, "A message from Big Tony." This time, no one said to shut up. I guess they all figured I was unconscious, or dead maybe, but I wasn't, and they couldn't tell with the hood still on my head. It was Billy's voice, and I remember how much I wanted to get up right then and kill him.

"Where's the club?" he said. I'll never forget it: Where's the club?

"216 Mott Street," someone answered. Was that... a woman's voice? A series of car doors slammed, four of them.

As I lay there on the sidewalk on Jamaica Avenue, I wondered if anyone was going to help me. Then I wondered if anyone was going to rob me. It could have gone either way. As it turned out, it was help, in the form of a police car. It came around the corner of 160th Street, and I detected the flashing lights through the fabric of the hood. I remember seeing the shiny, black rubber-soled shoes of the two officers as they ran to my side. They helped me up, and took the sack off my head. It turned out to be a mailbag.

One of the officers walked back to the cruiser and radioed in, saying they'd responded to the call. I remember stumbling to the Cavalier, which was still idling, and sitting down in the front seat, smelling my own vomit. That was when I saw Rudolph's furry little body splayed on the hood of the car.

Chapter 55... The Sponge Bath

On Wednesday, I called in sick. Patty didn't sound too happy about it, but there wasn't much I could do. I didn't tell her I was wrapped up like a mummy and had three cracked ribs, or that my face was so swollen it even hurt to move my eyes. Nor did I tell her that all of it was meant as a warning—to her!

Thursday I was off, and I'm sure she thought I was goldbricking it when I called in again on Friday and then left my answering machine on all day. I didn't want to talk to anyone, and I laid on my back—the only position in which it didn't hurt to breathe—for a third day, gazing into the ceiling. I thought about a million different things, my emotions all blended together in a sorrowful mixture of self-pity.

Patty called on Friday around noon and left a message. I didn't call back, and she left a second snippy little message later in the day, wondering how I was enjoying my vacation. She didn't know any better. At about five in the afternoon my doorbell rang. I figured it was her and I limped to the door. The hair color on the convex image in the peephole wasn't Patty's dirty blonde color, however, but dark, and it took me a second to realize it was Chita. In my paranoid muddle, I came to the conclusion that Patty must have sent her to see if I was really sick. The anxiety bubbled inside me and my heart raced, which didn't do much for my ribs, and I debated whether to open the door, or just stand there. I guess I needed someone right then, desperately perhaps, and I got more desperate as Chita stood on the other side not having a clue as to what I'd been through.

I wasn't sure myself what I'd been through. I mean, I know I'd gotten the crap kicked out of me, but I didn't know why, or, more precisely, why me as opposed to Patty. I was sure of one thing, though: what happened to me was going to happen to her. That had been made clear, and Patty had to get the message. Maybe Chita was the messenger. Besides, almost three days of thinking about shattering Billy's ugly brown teeth with a baseball bat was getting to me—getting to me in the sense that I was thinking about actually doing it. I snapped the lock and stood there in gym shorts and t-shirt.

"Oh my God!" Chita gasped.

"It's not as bad as it looks."

"Oh my God!"

"There are other phrases you could use. It's not that bad."

She came in, dropped her bag and took off her jacket. "Here, let me look at that," she said.

"I've already been to the hospital."

"This needs some ice." She touched the dark spot on my cheek, which had started to turn purple and yellow. I winced when she pushed on it as if she were testing a steak to see if it was done.

"Come. Sit," she ordered. I had no choice. She went into the hallway with the stove and the refrigerator in it, and returned with some ice cubes wrapped in a dishtowel. I couldn't help but notice what was inside her blouse when she bent over and applied the dishtowel-on-the-rocks to my face, and my brain went, woof! I had a truly spectacular view. Very nice, I judged, despite the fact that they were partially covered by a lacy white brassiere. Some of the pain went away immediately, or maybe I just forgot about it.

"I heard about it," she said, interrupting my concentration. I took her wrist and pulled it away, looking into her big, dark eyes. There was some moisture there. "About this?" I asked, pointing to my face.

"Yes, about this," she said, taking my wrist from her wrist. "Now sit still and let me get the cold on it." She bent over again.

"How'd you hear about it?"

"Those idiots at the dealership have big mouths," she replied, applying the ice directly. The cold felt good. I sat there peacefully, gazing into her shirt. They were like a pair of firm apples, and I was tempted to push my head in there and take a bite.

Suddenly, she poked at the bruise, which moments before she'd been nursing lovingly. "Ouch!" I looked up and saw her eyes were on mine.

"Like what you see down there?"

I felt my face flush from embarrassment, and for a second I thought the ice on my cheek would melt as if it were in a microwave. "Sorry. Couldn't help it," I said, which wasn't a complete lie. Of course, to answer her question, I liked what I saw very much.

"Right," she scoffed, but she didn't pull away. She didn't seem too angry about it either. "Take off your shirt," she commanded, "and let me look at your ribs."

"They're okay," I said. "I just need some more rest."

"Take off your shirt."

"I'm all right. I just—"

"Now!"

"Yavol! Brunhilda! Some bedside manner," I said, barely getting my arms over my head. I hadn't bathed since Tuesday.

"You're ripe," she said, undoing the mummy wrappings that had been put on in the emergency room. "You need a sponge bath."

"A sponge bath?"

"It's okay, I can help you. I'm used to it."

"No, I don't think so. I'll just take a shower now that you've got the bandages off."

"That could be very painful, and you could hurt yourself further if you move the wrong way. It's the sponge bath."

"I'll just take a shower."

"Sit!"

"Okay! I'll sit." I sat stiffly—my back that is—in one of the chairs around the dining table, but even that slight effort sent shards of pain through my ribcage. She disappeared into the hallway with the stove and the refrigerator in it, this time coming back with a spaghetti pot full of soapy water. She dipped a washcloth and began washing my neck. It felt great. She was standing very close.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?" I had no idea what she was talking about. Her hair smelled wonderful. I figured I smelled like a goat.

She dipped the cloth again and resumed down my back. "For getting me the job." I felt the warm rivulets of water trickle down my back.

The F & I job? Taking credit for that would have been the sleazy thing to do. "I didn't do anything," I said, which was true. "All I did was mention to Patty that you knew the work as well as anyone."

"Well, whatever you said, it was enough." She left a little too much water in the washcloth. "Oh, I need a towel," she said. "I'll be right back."

I watched her walk away. A sexpot, that's what she was, naturally so, a tight, compact little sexpot. I wondered if she knew it. She was back in a flash. She draped the towel across my back and dipped and wrung and pulled the washcloth across my neck. It caught on my three-day stubble like Velcro.

"Lift your arms," she said.

I did so, and the pain shot through my chest. I couldn't even get my arms to horizontal, it hurt so much. She did my armpits.

"You stink."

And I did. She moved to my chest. "You deserve that job," I said. "You always seemed to be the only one back there who did any work. Holtzman was always reading the paper whenever I saw him. What exactly did he do back there anyway?"

"Not finance work, that's for sure."

"Did he ever do anything at all?"

"Not dealership work, if that's what you mean. He just did work that involved the dealership."

I didn't know what she meant by that.

"I'm not going to wash your down there," she said, pointing. "You're going to have to do that yourself." She handed me the washcloth.

"But that's the best part." I smiled.

"Wash."

"Turn around."

She smiled. "But that's the best part."

"Turn around." She did, crossing her arms and waiting until I was done with Old Zeke. "What do you mean, he only did work that involved the dealership?"

"Holtzman ran a numbers operation out of F & I." She tapped her foot. "Are you done yet?"

"In a minute. There's a lot to wash down here. It takes a while." She laughed a snorty little laugh. That was good. "Numbers?" I asked in response to the part about Holtzman.

"That's why he was always reading the papers—to get the numbers. First number was always the winning horse at Belmont; the second number was always the place horse at Yonkers; etcetera, etcetera, etcetera."

"Really?" Yonkers rang a bell with me.

"It didn't take a genius to figure it out. Besides, those bozos weren't very secretive about it with all their bragging all over the place. You pick things up."

"I'm done," I said. "You can turn around now." I was tempted to leave my shorts down, but I didn't. I handed her the washcloth.

"I'm not touching that thing now, and I'm not doing your feet."

I was going to say something smart, but I tried to get up and my chest felt like a lightning bolt cut through it. "Oooh," I wheezed, and I collapsed.

"We need to get that bandage back on tight." She rolled the yards of stretchy cloth into one big roll, then pulled off one end and put it to my chest. "Hold this," she said, referring to the bandage.

Hold this, I thought, but I didn't want to get nasty. That's what one of the other guys would have done in this situation, which made me think. "Why did you come here, anyway?" She stretched the bandage around my chest and my back tighter than it was before. "Easy," I said. I could barely breathe.

"This needs to be as tight as you can stand it," she said. "Trust me, I know what I'm talking about."

I knew she'd probably studied this stuff in her nursing courses, so I wasn't about to argue. She put the butterfly clip into place and began wrapping the second length of bandage in the opposite direction. "I came here for two things," she said. "I wanted to thank you, which I just did, and I wanted to check on you. I was afraid maybe you were dead."

"Dead? Where would you get an idea like that?"

"You should hear what they're saying around the dealership."

Chapter 56... The Brick

It was Labor Day. I walked into the showroom on that Monday morning, a little late, and Patty had already gathered the crew at the base of the tower for a short meeting before things got started. Everyone was there, as usual on a Monday holiday, as Monday holidays were big sales days in the car business. I walked silently toward the group of twenty or so salesmen, and Rita, the lone saleswoman. They were oblivious to me, their backs turned as I approached. The lights were still off, and Patty's voice reverberated inside the shadowed showroom.

"We just got a shipment of new Jags," she said, her voice loud and confident, "and I don't think we want to do a lot of dealing on these cars. We've had a lot of customers coming out here from the city lately, customers with money to burn, and even though they put up a good front, they'll pay whatever it takes to...." She stopped when she saw me. For a second no one turned, then, one by one, the entire sales staff turned toward me as I approached, cane in hand, the largest, darkest sunglasses I could find covering my battered face. They parted like the Red Sea, a sea of Styrofoam coffee cups and glazed donuts.

I looked at every face as I passed: Juan, Rosie, Chambers, O'Donnell, Terrell—each of them averting my hidden gaze, their eyes inevitably falling on their shoes. One by one, they stepped aside. Burtner, Jackson, Pinson, a new guy I didn't recognize, all of them moved back, a couple of them stumbling and sloshing coffee. The only noise was the click of my cane against the shiny tiles. Rita was in the middle, a splash of different color in the center of the group. I thought I detected a little nod from her; I wasn't sure. Delmo was next to her, his eyes white in their sockets and unblinking. I took a moment, a couple of heartbeats worth, communicating my unspoken thoughts to him. If brain waves had texture, there would have been a tidal wave between us. I continued past Collins, Helou, Weaver, and there, behind Weaver, stood Billy Gatton. I stopped cold. Billy wasn't looking at me. He spat a little something between his teeth, his head to the side, but I know he felt my intensity. Wordlessly, I moved forward. Weaver took a giant step back as if I had The Plague. Another salesman did the same. I had a clear path to Billy, wide as a road. He still wasn't looking. He took out a pack of smokes and put one between his teeth, lighting it quickly. Patty didn't say anything about the cigarette. I guess she was watching too. Billy took a drag, and I took a step toward him. The cane clicked, and he took another puff, smoke streaming from both nostrils. Another step, another huge drag. I walked up real close. Billy and I were about the same height, close to six foot, but I was a lot thicker than he was. He took another drag, still not looking at me at first, and then he looked me square in the face. I could tell he was getting ready to blow the smoke in my face, so I grabbed him by the jaw and twisted his head to the side, forcing him to cough the smoke out over his shoulder. I squeezed with all my might. Then, letting go, I reached down, the pain in my ribs shooting through me like a hot sword, and stripped his hand of the cigarette. I crushed it, and took my glasses off so he could see my bruised face clearly. I put my nose up to his nose, not an inch away, and I smelled his foul cigarette breath.

"When this is over, you and me are gonna go out back and dance," I said, my voice just a whisper.

I don't know if anyone else heard it, but I know Billy did. I turned, limping toward the tower, and I half expected Billy to throw a punch into my back, but he didn't. If he did, I swear I would have killed him with my bare hands. I limped up the six steps to the tower, right foot up, right foot up, six times, and Patty stepped to the side.

"Good morning, Mister Madrid," she said. "Welcome back." Then, she added, "You're late."

It was definitely a weird day. People tried not to look at me, which was fine with me actually, but they couldn't help but look eventually. They tried to be obscure about their curiosity, and I felt like the Elephant Man. The day continued that way for some time. After a while, Patty came up to have a few words with me.

"There's a lot of stuff going around about you."

"What kind of stuff?

"Oh, a lot of different stuff, from you got mugged, to you got the crap kicked out of you trying to stop some kids from stealing a car last Tuesday night, to you got into a fight with a salesman over a commission split. Is any of it true?"

I didn't answer right away. Patty seemed concerned enough, yet unconcerned at the same time. I thought about the warning I was supposed to communicate that she was next. I knew she'd have no intention of stepping down, and, waiting there, I wondered into what kind of odd predicament we were both thrusting ourselves. She was clearly passionate about making a go of the dealership; anyone could see that. Just the way she walked, that straight back, the unwavering gaze, all of it symptomized the passion that consumed her. She wore it on her sleeve. I guess she could have walked away and gone on to live the life of a Barbie doll, with her little toy cars, and little toy clothes, and little toy men, but she didn't. Something drove her. I guess it was pride.

"What do you think happened?" I asked.

Her stare spoke volumes, much more than what she said, which seemed trivial at first blush. "I'll believe whatever you tell me," she said.

That was it. It was up to me. I could either come along for the ride, or I could get off now, no sweat off her. "Why don't we talk later? It'll give me a chance to think up what I want you to believe."

A glance told me she knew exactly what I was thinking. We needed no other conversation later, although we would have one. How much can one absorb from a glance? I'm going to make this happen, Carmen. I'm going to prove something to myself, to my mother, and I'm going to do something substantial with my life. This train is leaving the station, Carmen. You can come along, if you want, but it's your choice. Get on now, or don't, but if you come, do it for yourself. Do it for your own sense of accomplishment, for your own sense of self-worth. That's what life is about, Carmen, what you think about yourself, not what others think about you. Big shots are big from within. Are you big from within, Carmen? Can you hack it? You just let me know. The train is leaving. It only took a second.

I took the tower for most of the morning as Patty decided to spend some time with Chita back in F & I, but even then the salesmen sought her out. She told them she was busy, to see me if they needed something. They slinked up gingerly, one by one, most of them with their head down, hesitating until I looked up through my dark glasses and asked in the nicest possible way, "What the fuck do you want?" Not one of them argued with me, probably because I looked like some sort of mobster behind those glasses. Maybe it was because I felt mean, that I just as soon have kicked them in the stones as look at them. Maybe it came across, ya think? Anyway, we made four deals before noon. Billy didn't come up at all.

Throughout the morning, I had the distinct feeling that I was learning a lesson. To thine own self be true: the phrase stuck in my head like an itchy rash that wouldn't go away. At about one o'clock, I was about to go and find Patty. I still didn't know what to tell her. I didn't want to wimp out, but I didn't relish the idea of getting the crap knocked out of me again because I'd gotten in the way of Big Tony's crooked little deals. It was someone else's fight. It was Patty's fight. Maybe it was the Queen Mother's fight. But it wasn't my fight. I didn't have to go far to find her. I saw her striding quickly across the showroom floor, zigging and zagging between cars with Rita close behind. The hair blew off their faces from the swiftness of their gait. Rita had her handbag slung across her shoulder. I figured maybe they were going to lunch.

"This came for you," said Patty. She handed me an envelope.

"There's no mail today," I said. "It's Labor Day."

"It didn't come by mail. It came attached to this." She placed a brick down on the desk with a thud. "It came flying over the fence from the avenue onto the hood of a new Impala."

I looked at the front of the envelope. There was no address on it, just the words Kid Madrid scrawled across the front. I tore it open, and inside, on a plain white piece of paper was an address: 113-42 37th Avenue, followed by: We know where they are. It was my parents' address.

"I got one just like it," said Patty, holding up a similar envelope with Fairchild Bitch scrawled across the front. "Chita got one too."

I felt the anxiety start to bubble underneath my bruises. "Where is she," I asked.

Rita said, "She's on the phone with her parents."

I looked at Rita and wondered what she had to do with all this. Patty must have sensed my curiosity.

"Carmen, I'd like you to meet Detective Rita O'Shea of the New York City Police Department."

You could probably have hit me in the face with a shovel right then and I wouldn't have noticed. Rita reached into her bag and took out a little black wallet, the one I'd seen there before, and flashed a silver badge. Well, I thought, that explained the gun I'd seen in there. "Can you please tell me what's going on?" I asked.

Just then, at the foot of the six steps, I saw Delmo standing there holding a sales order. Hesitantly, I waved him up, intending to quickly initial off on the deal if the numbers were anywhere near acceptable. "How much are we holding?" I asked.

"About twelve hundred," he said, putting the sales order down next to the brick.

"Fine," I said, approving the deal and sliding it back across the desk so as to get him out of there. Delmo reached for the sales order, then stopped, but it was too late. I'd already noticed that the knuckles on Delmo's right hand had scabs on them. I looked up, and his black face turned a strange shade of black/crimson. Then, I looked down at his shoes.

Chapter 57... Izzy's

"This really isn't the place to talk about this," I said. Both Patty and Rita agreed, and we decided to wait until the end of the day. Chita went home early, I found out, and I wondered how she was taking it. The thought crossed my mind that she might quit. I hoped not, but I wouldn't have blamed her. I'd thought about it myself. I was to meet with Patty and Rita at a bar around the corner from the T-Bone Diner in Forest Hills. We closed at six o'clock on holidays, and at six on the dot I locked the gates and drove down the avenue, hooking a right onto Queens Boulevard through Kew Gardens. Luckily, a parking spot wasn't hard to find since it was a holiday. Nice neighborhood. On the outdoor basketball courts in that area, I noticed that all the kids were white and had good shoes. The bar—Izzy's it was called—was tucked between some high-rises, and I slid into the booth at 6:36 and twelve seconds. The place looked like one where middle-aged plumbers went to slug down a couple of quick ones after work before going home to the old lady.

I attracted a couple of over-the-shoulder looks from some patrons strung along the rail when I came in, all of whom were hunched over half-filled mugs of beer. After giving me a quick but obvious up and down, they looked back into their glasses as if they'd lost a diamond in there. "What's with them?" I asked as I slid into the booth.

"You look like a gangster," said Rita, who was sipping a beer. "Slick suit, slick hair, big dark glasses; all you need now is a violin case."

A chunky old waitress with big blue hair came over. "Another round, hon?" she asked. Patty held up three fingers.

"Where'd you find this place?" I asked. "It's like something out of a black and white movie."

"It's in the family," said Rita. "Izzy was my grandfather."

The blue-haired waitress came back, holding three huge drafts in one hand. No girly drinks with umbrellas in this place, I thought.

Rita said, "Thanks, Aunt Sadie. Put this on my tab, okay?"

"No way," said Patty. "I've got this." She whipped out a fifty. "Let me know when it's gone."

Aunt Sadie tucked it into her cleavage for safekeeping like maybe there was a mugger lurking behind the phone booth. Moving off, she called, "Just whistle when you're empty."

"Aunt Sadie?" I asked, holding a huge frosted mug. "You don't look Jewish." Aunt Sadie obviously was.

Rita took a sip of red beer, and licked some foam off her red lips, her red hair glistening in the light of the fake Tiffany lamp overhead. "I take after the O'Sheas on my father's side. Izzy was my mom's dad."

"You grow up around here?" I don't know why I was making small talk. It just seemed like the thing to do before we got to the conversation about whether we were going to get killed and dismembered.

"Union Turnpike and Metropolitan Avenue. I went to Queens Metropolitan High School."

"How about you?" I asked, turning to Patty.

"I grew up on the Upper East Side on East 75th, went to the Hewitt School."

"You?" they both asked at the same time.

"Jamaica," I said. "Thomas Edison Technical."

"Well," said Patty as she raised her glass. "We're all in this together now, aren't we?"

Some toast, I thought, together with two of the whitest women I'd ever seen. The small talk remained small. The big talk came right away, and their intensity blanketed the table.

"Does one of you want to answer my question?" I asked.

"You haven't asked one," said Patty.

"I asked it earlier. One of you needs to tell me what the hell is going on here."

Rita sipped her beer, and said, "It's going to be a long story."

It was close to an hour before I spoke again. "You can't be serious," was all I could say when I did.

"More than serious," Rita countered. "A major fencing operation. Do you remember that Sunday when you met Billy at the motel in the Bronx?"

Patty's head snapped toward me. "Yeah?" I said, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"Billy was moving a truckload of hot computers from Sonny Olanzo's yard. Stolen from a warehouse in Jersey, we think."

"We?"

"My partner and I. We've been watching Sonny's lot for almost two months. Believe me, he doesn't make his money from buying and selling cars."

Patty was staring at me and the butterflies in my stomach were like dive-bombers. "I was just supposed to pick him up. I swear to God I didn't know what he was doing. I didn't know anything about the truck until afterwards." I don't think she was buying it.

"What else were you involved in?" she asked.

The lump wouldn't go down, no matter how many times I swallowed. "Just that one time, with Billy," I said, my voice almost shaking, "and once I my own, but I swore that was going to be the last time."

"I thought you were better than those idiots," Patty said disapprovingly.

"Listen, I only did it for the money. I was broke, you know?" Then I added, "No, you probably don't know." That wasn't the right thing to have said.

Trying to save me from being burned by Patty's glare, Rita said, "Listen, you were just one little guppy in a huge pond. We think Big Tony and Sonny ran several vehicles a week into the local airports."

A guppy? Well, okay. Just a cute, harmless little guppy.

"Drugs, right?" Patty asked. "Heroin? Cocaine?"

"That's what we thought too, but we had our dogs go over the vehicles at the airports and got nothing."

"What then?"

"We're not quite sure, but it had to be something small and valuable that the dogs couldn't pick up."

"What could be small and so valuable that someone would pay...." Patty stopped, and she turned to me again. "That's what was in the envelope that day, wasn't it? It was money for making one of those trips."

My skin felt itchy, and little drops of sweat were popping out on my forehead. "Yes," I confessed.

"How much did you get?"

"A thousand bucks."

"How much? I didn't hear you."

"A thousand, okay? I got a thousand bucks! I needed the goddamned money!"

Patty was boiling, but she managed to keep it under control. "What would be so valuable that they'd pay a thousand bucks just to get it from one side of town to the other? And why the airports?"

"We asked the same questions," said Rita. "We figured it had to be something that would be easy to sneak onto a plane, maybe in some carry-on luggage."

"It was smaller," I said.

"You know what it was?" Rita asked.

I recalled the trip in the battered Subaru. "No, not exactly. But it was something that would fit inside a tire, or taped to a wheel rim, and not get destroyed."

Patty joined in. "How many things are that small and very valuable?"

"Lots of things," said Rita. "Microfilm, maybe."

"Diamonds? Jewels?" Patty guessed.

"Maybe," said Rita. "The dogs certainly wouldn't pick them up. But there are other things."

"Computer chips," I said, trying to redeem myself.

"Could be computer chips," said Rita.

"Where does Tommy Lee fit into all this?" I asked. They both looked at me.

"Who's Tommy Lee?" Rita asked.

We ordered more beer, and we were there another two hours.

Chapter 58... To Quit, Or Not To Quit

I watched a cockroach scamper across the floor while Rita used the shower. It was like: Hey guys, cat's gone. Let's party! I missed Rudolph. The water stopped running and she emerged looking like a munchkin in the too-big terrycloth robe I'd given her.

"Thanks for letting me stay last night. I don't think I've had that much to drink since my college days."

"It's no problem," I said, handing her a cup of hot coffee. "What was Henry's reaction when you told him you weren't coming home?"

"Ooh, thanks," she said, taking the cup. "He wasn't in so I left a message on the machine. That should've put him in a good mood for what I'm going to do today." She looked away.

"Listen," I said. "I hope it's not because of anything I said. I mean, we were just talking, you know?"

"Don't be silly," she sighed. "But you were right. Besides, I've been thinking about it a long time. It's not meant to be, at least not right now. He has his priorities, and I have mine. It's like you said: if the relationship is right, it'll come back together when the other demands on our lives aren't so great. How'd you get to be so smart?" she asked, looking over the rim of her cup.

Her skin looked scrubbed, a backdrop for the spots of color: the lips, the eyes. She hiked the robe up tight around her neck. Jesus, I thought, she was listening to me, of all people? I couldn't get my own life straight. "Yeah, I'm a real genius," I said sarcastically. "Listen, what Patty said is true too. Sometimes you have to make it work."

"We've been trying, but it's not happening. I have to choose. Hell, I hardly see him anyway," she rambled. "What with working at the dealership during the day, and the precinct at night, I'm never there for him. And when I am, I'm so tired I can't give him the attention he deserves."

"Deserves?"

"Yeah. He deserves it."

"Does he support you?"

"Support me?"

She had a quizzical look on her face, like she didn't understand the concept. "Maybe a better way to ask the question is: is he supportive? From what you said, you two are at opposite ends of the spectrum; he's pretty much into being part of the corporate elite, and you're not."

"Yeah, but—"

"Has he done anything to make it easier? Sounded to me like he was making demands."

"Well, he's hardly had a chance to see me. He—"

"He has to know what you're going through. If he supported you, he wouldn't give you ultimatums. Why does he deserve anything?"

"Which side are you on, anyway? First you sound like you don't want me to do it, then you sound like you do. You don't even know the man." A touch of frustration came through.

"No, but in my opinion, you're the one who deserves something. You're the one who's trying to find out who killed his nephew. Hasn't that changed his point of view at all?"

Rita pulled on a wet tuft of hair. "It's made it worse. Now he thinks that the social scum, as he calls it, should all be shot, eliminated from the earth, or shipped off to some remote island where they couldn't affect respectable people. He thinks they're a lost cause."

I wondered if the color of one's skin had anything to do with being social scum versus respectable people: white equaled respectable, black equaled scum, I guessed; mine was somewhere in between.

"Actually, I think maybe he expects it," she said, tightening the robe around her.

"Do you have a place to stay?"

"Nope. I'll have to find one, I guess."

Thinking what-the-hell, I offered. "You can stay here for a while—only if you want to, of course."

"You don't really mean that, do you?"

"Sure, why not? I'm hardly here anyway."

I was surprised when she accepted, as in really surprised. I mean, the offer was more out of courtesy than anything else.

"It'll just be for a couple of days. I'm sure I'll find a place in no time. I just hope it's one I can afford."

"Hah! You should be able to afford just about anything after your next commission check."

She said it as if it were almost an afterthought. "Speaking of the dealership, I have to quit. My lieutenant wants me to spend more time on the other connections, see where they lead."

I felt a little let down. "When?"

"Right away, today. Will you tell Patty for me? She'll understand." She had that pleading, puppy dog look.

The bug I'd been watching scampered out of a corner, and the image of Rudolph's dead body flashed through my mind. Suddenly, the parallel image of my parents suffering the same fate came to me. It could never happen, I thought as I tried to put it out of my head, but my insides seized up in a dreadful knot. "I wonder if I should quit too. These guys aren't playing games."

"No, they're not. It would certainly be understandable if you bailed out."

Bailed out? I thought.

"In any case, you should warn your parents. It could be dangerous for them. These guys want this dealership back in a bad way."

"Patty will never give it up, never in a million years."

Rita said something else, but I don't remember what it was because the phone rang. I looked at the clock and noted that it was only 7:15. It was my mom. She never called that early. "Is something wrong, Mom? You don't sound too good."

"The weirdest thing happened last night, Carmen honey." Her voice was thick with emotion. "Someone threw a brick through our window, and there was a note taped to it. It said, From Carmen. Why would anyone do such a thing?"

"Where's Dad?" I asked.

"He's getting ready to go out and buy a new window."

"Tell him to stay there," I said. "I'll be right over."

Chapter 59... Just One More Night

"You can't punk out on me now!"

Her too? "I am not punking out, Patty. My parents are scared to death. My mom just about broke down when she saw my face, and now she thinks I'm some sort of mobster." It wasn't my fight, and I refused to let Patty make me feel guilty. I looked at Chita, who was sitting behind her desk, nodding in agreement. Thank God for a sympathetic expression. It wasn't much, but it made me feel better.

"So you're going to quit? Just give up?"

Patty was anything but subtle. The F & I people outside the office kept stealing glances through the glass half-wall, trying to figure out why we were going at it. It didn't really matter. There were more rumors floating around the dealership than a porcupine had quills.

"What would you suggest I do? Let a bunch of gangsters beat up on my parents? Because of my job? C'mon Patty, let's get real here."

Listening to reason wasn't on Patty's agenda. "Don't you see what they're trying to do?"

"I see exactly what they're trying to do, and, may I suggest, they're doing a damned good job of it." I looked over at Chita, who hadn't said a word. Help! my face said.

"So, you're just going to wimp out and let the bastards move back in. I always knew you were all show."

That was low, but Chita jumped in before I could tell Patty exactly what I thought of that comment.

"C'mon Patty, you need to see this from our point of view. My parents feel the same way. They're scared to death."

"After all I've done for both of you?"

Chita was trying to stay calm, but her fuse still wasn't very long. "You didn't do any of this for us! You put us in these jobs because you needed someone in a hurry and we were there to plug the hole in the dike."

"I can't run this place alone," Patty responded. "You can't leave. Not now!"

"Aren't you paying attention?" I asked in a loud voice. I pointed to the side of my face, which by that time had turned a distinctive shade of puke yellow. "This was meant as a warning, to you!"

Patty was like a cornered cat, swiping at anything that came near her. "I understand perfectly well," she snarled. "But we can fight them."

"Why?" I asked. "It's just a matter of time before your mother sells out."

Patty's eyes settled on mine. "How do you know about that?" she asked, suddenly serene.

Using that special brand of indignation she had, Chita suddenly swiped back. Remember, cheetah claws? "We're risking life and limb—over a job—and the place is up for sale!" She got up to leave. "Like the song says folks, Take This Job and—"

"Wait!" Patty called. "You have to listen."

"Why? You're not listening to us!"

"Please," she begged. "This is a much bigger game than either of you could ever imagine."

"I don't feel like playing any more games," Chita snapped back.

"Please!" Patty begged again. It was enough to make Chita hesitate. "I don't want to talk here. Come to my apartment... tonight. I'll explain everything. I'll ask Rita to come too."

"Rita?" Chita questioned. "What the hell does she have to do with all this?"

Chita didn't know about Rita being a cop, but I found myself wondering what Patty meant. Was there something we didn't cover over fifty bucks' worth of beer at Izzy's?

Chita crossed her arms impatiently. "Tell me now."

"I can't, not here. Tonight... please come and just listen, then you can do whatever you want. Fair enough?"

Chita looked at me, and I nodded. "Will you pick me up?"

"Sure," I said.

"Good," said Patty. "I have to close tonight, but I should be home by ten." She scribbled the address on a piece of paper. "It's in the city." Then she asked, "Is Rita here?"

"That reminds me," I said. "Rita won't be in today."

"Did she call in sick?"

"No," I answered, probably a little too knowingly. "She's out breaking up with her boyfriend."

Patty and Chita both had the same question hanging on their faces. "She told me, okay? Last night."

"Last night?" Chita asked quickly.

"Yes, last night... at my place."

"At your place?" she asked even more quickly, folding her arms.

"Yeah, my place. She's staying with me for a couple of days."

"Is that right?"

Patty changed the subject. "When is she coming back?"

I turned away from Chita, who had already averted my gaze and was looking into the wall. "I don't think she'll be back for a while," I said.

Chapter 60... 332 East 82nd Street

"What'll you have?" Patty asked.

"Beer."

Patty headed to the kitchen, a real kitchen, not a hallway with a stove and a refrigerator in it. "Chita, how about you?"

"I'll have a glass of wine if you have it. Don't go to any trouble though."

"Not at all," Patty called back. "Carmen, would you mind? In the wine pantry... on the top rack. Grab anything that looks amusing."

She had a wine pantry? With a rack in it? Installed? Jesus. I went to the kitchen and saw what looked to be a closet, and I opened it. There it was: a wine pantry. I'd never seen a wine pantry before, but I guess that's what a wine pantry looked like, all right: dusty, with lots of dark bottles lying on their sides. "Is this refrigerated?" I asked.

"I keep it at a permanent forty-eight degrees," Patty answered. "Is that all right?"

"Sounds fine to me," I said. "But I'm having beer."

"And here it is." Patty handed me a frosty brown bottle of something I'd never heard of, German-looking, with one of those long bell-shaped glasses—pilsner glasses, I think they're called. "I think I'll have wine as well," she said, reaching around me, seeing as I was standing there like a statue. She pulled out a greenish bottle. "Is this okay with you, Chita?"

"Anything is fine," Chita replied.

I noticed a little price sticker on the bottle: $28.99—for a bottle of wine. That's about what I spent on groceries in a week. While Patty fussed with the bottle—she had this gadget that went down the sides of the cork so as not to put a hole in it, I found out—I took a minute to check the place out. The furniture looked like it was made from real wood, not that Formica wood that chipped off and had sharp edges to it. And the windows had... what were those, drapes? With pull cords. I had shades in my apartment, which didn't go all the way up so that it was always a little dark inside. That's why my plants always died, and why the cockroaches were always scooting around the place. Patty had nice plants, huge ones, trees, for Christ's sake, growing from big pots on the floor that looked to be hand painted. They looked very expensive, as did everything else in the apartment. I didn't see any cockroaches, and I guessed she probably didn't own any.

"What is this?" I asked as I examined a small but intricately carved picture of a ship hanging on the wall.

Patty poked her head out of the kitchen. "Are you asking what it's made of?"

"Yeah."

"Ivory. It's called scrimshaw. The mates to it are hanging over the credenza. They're the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria."

"Oh," I said. "Ivory?" I figured ivory cost, like, a million bucks, didn't it?

"Well, I wouldn't buy them now," Patty replied as if I'd asked a question. "You know, endangered species and all, but I figured these animals were already dead. They're antiques."

"Oh," I said. "Where's the credenza?"

"You're standing next to it," said Chita. "It's the long cabinet with the lamps on it."

I immediately felt supremely unintelligent. Patty came out with two glasses of wine and settled at the dining table, saving me from exposing my stupidity any further. It was one of those dining tables with curvy legs, the ends of which looked like the foot of a chicken, or something, grabbing a baseball. Why would anyone make a table leg that looked like a chicken grabbing a baseball? She said it was a ball and claw leg, which I had no idea what that meant, but I assume it was important somehow. Anyway, Patty moved into the conversation.

"I never got hold of Rita."

To me, that was no big deal, seeing as I knew about Rita being a cop, and all. It was Chita who needed an understanding of how Rita fit in to all this. Patty covered a lot of what we'd discussed at Izzy's, which seemed like ages ago rather than the previous night. I relived it again as Patty reviewed it for Chita's benefit. She also revealed how Rita had come onto the lot posing as a customer, and that I, Carmen Madrid, had been her salesman. I felt proud, somehow.

"So all this time Rita's been working undercover, trying to trace down the dealership's connections to organized crime? Huh," she said, taking a sip of her wine. "Does she know that Holtzman was running a numbers game and using the parts vans to courier money around the city?"

Patty looked at Chita, clearly surprised. "I never knew that," she said.

Chita snorted knowingly. "That's also how Holtzman distributed cash. He traded the cash we took in on deals and ran it back out to pay off when someone hit a number."

"Laundering money?" Patty concluded.

Chita shrugged. "Why not? He was simply going to blame it all on me if we got caught."

"And you did it?" Patty asked. "I mean, not file the forms, and all?"

"A few times," Chita answered. "But then I refused." She looked at me when she said that, and I knew what it meant. "Holtzman was getting ready to fire me over it."

"How do you know?"

"Because he asked our bimbo receptionist if she'd like to learn my job—like she could handle it."

"Who told you that?"

"She did. She can't keep her mouth shut—in more ways than one, I hear."

I'd heard the same thing. Some of the guys said she did a pretty good imitation of Holly Hollow on the old tube steak.

"I had no clue," said Patty. "This goes even deeper than I thought." She paused. "We need to clean out the entire staff." She spoke as if we were part of whatever she was thinking, but Chita put an abrupt end to that idea.

"Well, you can start with me. I'm not going to risk my safety, or that of my parents, over this," she said, getting up. "I'll let you know when my last day will be."

Patty didn't say a word, and it was evident that she'd underestimated the extent of the shady dealings that Big Tony and the dealership were involved in. Chita's revelations left her clearly deflated, and whatever she was going to tell us, or whatever attempt she was going to make at convincing us to stay on, seemed suddenly dashed. As we got up to leave, Patty grabbed her coat and came out with us. Outside, East 82nd Street was quiet. It was almost midnight, and Chita and I took a second to get our bearings. "We parked over in that direction, didn't we?" I asked.

"I think so," said Chita, and we said our goodbyes to Patty who said she was going to take a walk to clear her head. Patty took off in the opposite direction on East 82nd, and Chita and I walked in silence. I'm sure we were both thinking about our parents, but, in my case, I was also calculating how long I could live in my apartment with no money coming in until I found another job. It was a quick calculation, the answer being about twenty-seven minutes. As we walked among the huge brownstones, I looked up, noticing that we'd reached the corner of Second Avenue. We hadn't crossed Second Avenue when we arrived. "I think we're going in the wrong direction," I said.

Chita said, "I think you're right," and we turned around and walked in silence some more. She sobbed.

I stopped in the midnight stillness and took her by the shoulders. "You made the right decision," I said.

"I'm afraid for my parents," she said, sniffling and suddenly looking very vulnerable. "These people are crazy." I pulled her close, and saw a tear track down her face reflecting amber light from a street lamp. "Will you hold me?" she asked, and I put my arm around her shoulder as we backtracked on East 82nd toward to our car.

We were almost back to Patty's place when, up the street in front of us, a Chevy Blazer screeched to a stop in front of her building. It looked like the same Blazer Tommy Lee had bought on the 4th of July, I thought as a door swung open and someone stepped out. A voice called out, clear as day, and it too was familiar. It was the same voice that had responded to Billy, that bastard, when he'd asked, "Where's the club?" the night I was turned into a punching bag outside the dealership. "216 Mott Street," had been the answer, and I'd forgotten that my brain had registered the response as a woman's voice. In this case, it was a half-woman, and I realized that the voice had belonged to Lawanda Hoopes. She was right in front of us now, not half a block away in the middle of the street. Chita and I were on the sidewalk, shielded by a van and a couple of trees arching in the darkness above us. Quickly, I pulled Chita closer and scooted behind one of the big trees, down low, next to the van.

Lawanda's voice echoed off the brownstones. "This be where the motherfuckin' bitch lives." More doors opened on the Blazer, and I saw Tommy Lee get out of the back on the driver's side.

From around the other side, a huge body crept into the headlight beams. It was Big Tony. "Let's do it," he said.

No sooner had he spoken than another pair of headlights rounded the corner, high beams up, and another car raced up behind the Blazer. I watched with my heart in my throat, debating whether we should run the other way, but we didn't. Feeling hidden, we scrunched down low, and I felt Chita pry my hand from her face, which I must have inadvertently covered in some attempt to keep her silent.

"Stop that!" she whispered coarsely.

"Ssshhh!" We both peeked up. I'll never forget what happened next.

The car that had pulled up behind the Blazer was a long, black job, a Caddy. It hadn't even stopped completely before all the doors twanged open and six hulking figures jumped out like some sort of swat team. Little wisps of mist reflected in the headlights. Clearly, I saw the guns as they glinted in the headlights, six of them. One of the figures walked up to Tommy Lee, while two others made a big fat sandwich out of Big Tony. Another pair positioned themselves similarly on either side of Lawanda. One stood in the background, smoking.

The one in front of Tommy Lee spoke first. "So, brother man, you think you's some kind of fuckin' entrepreneur or somethin'? Mister DeLuna don't like no independent contractors." He put his gun right up to Tommy Lee's nose.

Tommy Lee's words barely croaked from his throat. "Please," he whimpered. "We's just tryin' to make a little on the side, man. You know how it is. Please, man. I'm sure we kin come to some sort of agreement."

"Shut up!" Lawanda screamed. She walked over to where Tommy Lee was begging for his life, her two escorts not an inch off to either side. Slowly, and very deliberately, she reached up and put her hand to the side of the gun trained on Tommy Lee's nose. "Let me," she said.

The killer looked at her, then at the two escorts on either side, both of whom shrugged. I swore I could almost see her eyes in the darkness. The killer handed her his gun and she faced Tommy Lee, seemingly unconcerned about the guns trained an inch off her own head. Big Tony stood in the Blazer's headlights, beams glinting around his huge body. Guns, all over the place. Lawanda's skin blended into the darkness like a black ghost, her voice unhuman.

"You've always been a gutless pussy," she said.

"Hey baby—" said Tommy Lee, and the boom of the automatic blew his face off.

I felt Chita jump through her skin, and we crouched lower, shivering in each other's arms. Lawanda dropped the gun on the pavement. I heard it clunk.

She turned to face her captors, another pistol moving immediately into the middle of her forehead. "Get it over with, motherfucker, if you got the guts."

He did, and the back of her head splattered into a car parked across the street.

Part Four... Going Down

Chapter 61... Back Along The Avenue

Morena guided the Crown Vic through Saint Albans, up Farmers Boulevard, past the homes that lined the street like battle-worn soldiers. They seemed normal enough, quiet from the outside, but he knew they housed any variety of activities. While Saint Albans was classified as middle class in the official demographic breakdowns, Morena knew better. Most homes were kept up as best as the meager incomes of the occupants permitted, others stood in ramshackle disrepair, the high grass on their lawns literally turning to hay in places. These were the pockets of despair. The appearance of each home could have been indicative of the particular predicament of its occupants: up-and-coming, down-and-out, okay for now, waiting for my maker; and even though the people of Saint Albans were a racially homogeneous mixture, they didn't always blend together well. Hardworking moms with two kids lived next to unemployed petty thieves, who lived next to gray-haired residents too poor to move from the dwellings they'd occupied since the white people moved out. He rolled through the neighborhood into Hollis Queens, observing the culture change, then took a left onto outer Jamaica Avenue and headed into another mixture of humanity. He drove in silence while Rita poured over the For Rent ads.

"Are you seriously thinking about moving to Queens?"

"Just checking the prices," she said. "It would be convenient for work though."

Morena scanned the names on the storefronts: Flashy Girl, The Lucky Chicken, La Bamba. He had trouble visualizing Rita O'Shea as part of this environment. "We're here," he announced, passing Fairchild MotorCars. He parked up the street in front of Rufus King Park and the historic mansion there that was now a museum.

"Nice spot for a picnic," said Rita, pointing to a used condom on the patchy grass inside the spiked fence.

Morena just turned away. They crossed the street and headed back toward the dealership. Carmen was outside the showroom, his head in the window of an old Ford Gran Torino whose throaty exhausts were babbling steadily through glass pack mufflers. A prominent white stripe divided the bright red paint job.

As they walked up, Morena said, "These were some hot wheels back in the day."

Rita looked at the car. "Fantasizing about your youth again, Morena? This thing is jacked up so high you'd need someone to help you get into it."

"This one is exactly how it was on the TV show."

"What show?"

"Starsky and Hutch." Morena just shook his head. "What I could have done with one of these."

Carmen's head came out of the window and his smile disappeared immediately. "Let's go inside," he said without so much as a how-do-you-do.

The showroom was deserted. The receptionist, the lovely Tanisha, and a single salesman were the only people visible, both of them busying themselves with magazines. "Where the hell is everybody?" Rita asked as she looked down salesmen's row.

"Been like this all day."

"Where's Patty?"

"We have no idea." They moved swiftly through the shadowy showroom, past the empty tower. The F & I offices were just as deserted, desks neat, devoid of any activity. Chita was in her office, head bowed in concentration. There was no greeting from her either, and her eyes jumped quickly from Rita to Morena, and back again.

"Did you say anything to them?" she asked. Carmen just shook his head.

"What's going on?" Rita asked, the worry lines on Carmen's face deepening even more.

"I told Chita about you," he said to Rita. "She knows you're a cop. Is this Hector?"

Rita did the introductions, but it was clear that no one wanted to speak. "I hear Rita's been using your place as a hotel," Morena said to Carmen in a weak attempt at lightening the moment, but no one seemed amused.

"Speaking of which...." said Rita. "Where were you yesterday? I was afraid something happened to you."

"Something did," said Carmen. "I stayed at Chita's house. I'm not sure I want to go back to my apartment right away, not until I know it's safe."

"What do you mean, safe? Why are you talking this way?"

Silence hung there for some seconds until Carmen said, "Do you remember the dude with the big teeth and fuzzy hats who came in here all the time? The one with the Amazon girlfriend?"

"Yeah," said Rita.

"He's dead."

"Is that something you wanna tell us about?" Morena asked instinctively.

Carmen hesitated, but saw Chita's go-ahead nod. "We saw it. His head blew apart like an exploding watermelon."

Morena pulled a notepad from inside his jacket. "And you saw who did it?"

"It was his girlfriend."

"The Amazon."

"Right. Shot him right in the face."

Morena made note. Clearly there was more. "And?" he asked.

"Then someone else shot her between the eyes."

"Between the eyes. She's dead too?"

"Right. And there's something else."

"What?"

"Big Tony was there."

Morena closed his notepad and pulled up a couple of chairs. "Okay folks," he said. "Let's take this from the top." He turned to Rita. "Why don't you get the recorder from the car while we put on a pot of coffee. I have a feeling we're going to be here a while."

Outside, watching from just outside the fence at the edge of the lot, Billy Gatton stomped out his eighth cigarette of the morning. He recognized that red haired bitch immediately. He heard she'd quit. He took out his last smoke, crushing the pack and throwing it into the gutter. No harm. Just another piece of garbage along the avenue.

Chapter 62... Regaining Control

Michael DeLuna wedged the Parodi between his teeth and vowed to himself, as he did every morning, that he'd quit soon. Cigars were out, smoking in general was out, but it looked good on him, and there were women who seemed to like it. They thought it was manly, and certainly he was a real man, not like the ultrasensitive, yuppie half-men he associated with every day in the business world. He dragged the razor across his face and rubbed a finger on his thick jawbone as a thread of smoke curled away. It usually took three or four passes to get all the stubble, which stood so thick he could hang a shirt on it. Satisfied, he set the Parodi on the edge of the sink and rinsed with cold water, tightening the skin and leaving it with a glossy sheen. It was time for his morning coffee.

Johnny was waiting downstairs in the main dining room. The Blue Moon Social Club was part bar, part restaurant, and part hotel, with a very select clientele, used only for very select events, and by invitation only. The smell of the Parodi signaled that the boss was on the way down, and Johnny set down a delicate china cup brimming with morning espresso. "Paper boss?"

"Thanks, Johnny." DeLuna spread the paper and scanned the front page methodically. Nothing. Then, he thought, news like that wouldn't make the front page of the Times, even if it did happen in the sanctity of East 82nd. It wasn't like when the two white kids died. That story was on the front page for days, and he was still worried about it. He took a quick taste of espresso and flipped to the metro section, scanning the headlines there. Nothing there either. Good, he thought. It hadn't been in the previous day's paper either. It was probably written off as just another drug hit, which was fine by him. He'd much rather have it characterized as that than as another infamous gangland murder. To him, it was just business, just another couple of mulunyans who'd been fired for insubordination. Still, he wished Johnny and his men hadn't been so rambunctious. He called Johnny over, motioning toward his coffee cup.

"Next time Johnny, I don't want anyone to notice. Okay?"

Johnny froze, despite the soft tone of the boss's words. "It's like I said boss, it couldn't be helped. That blue nigger bitch blew him away right there in the street. Just about blew his fuckin' head off. We had no choice. We had to drop her right there and get the hell out. Who knows who was lookin'?"

"That's my point exactly," said DeLuna. Damned Johnny was loyal, but such a dinosaur sometimes. Hit men, gangland murders, all of that was in the Stone Age. The organization had to get into the twenty-first century. Gagliano, for all his arrogance, had a point.

Johnny brought another cup of espresso. DeLuna spewed a mouthful of acrid smoke into the air and took a thoughtful pose. Plans had to be made to reacquire the territory, but they had to be simple, plans that didn't require a lot of talk. Talk was cheap. People paid attention when things happened, and he'd let the actions speak for themselves. He'd reacquire the territory in a way his capos would notice, in a single bold, determined stroke that no one could mistake for anything but what it was: a warning.

DeLuna reviewed the state of affairs in his head. With Gagliano gone, there could be any number of other schemes brewing to take over the action in Queens. Small timers were already covering the easy rackets that didn't require a lot of capital, and the whores would fall in behind any strong-arm who'd give them a place to ply their trade. He'd heard that a few street punks were trying to unload some merchandise here and there, but it was sporadic business, nothing organized. The numbers game was secure. No one had the cash to cover if a number hit big or if a couple of winners hit the same number on the same day. Also, no one had the organization to run an effective numbers game. He could take his time with that. Similarly, running a couple of hundred kilos of coke up from South America required a decent piece of change, and not everyone had it to throw around. The fencing operation could be diverted to Jerome Avenue. Eddie Jackson would only be too glad to take it temporarily, but the distribution was limited there. All in all, the territory was secure for a while, but someone would move in if a signal wasn't sent as to whom it really belonged. That fat fuck Conte from the Island was probably on the phone right now, nosing around. Gagliano had to be replaced, and soon. DeLuna came back to his espresso, pushing out another plume of stinky smoke. This was all such a nuisance, he thought. It was almost time for his tennis match. "Do we have any figures yet?"

"Yeah," said Johnny. "The spook was pretty much into the women and runnin' scores on the street. When we looked at his action, we figured he got at least half of it from Gagliano."

DeLuna did the numbers quickly. He knew his books. That meant between ten to fifteen thousand a week had been siphoned off. That shouldn't be too hard to regain. "Who was doing the financing?" he asked.

Johnny checked his notes. "As best we can figure, he was backin' his own deals. Seems like he'd been skimmin' for a while. The territory is still wide open, though. Shouldn't be too hard for us to move back in," Johnny concluded, just as DeLuna had.

That was the good news, but that dumb bastard Gagliano had cost him plenty. That was all water under the bridge, however, flowing over Gagliano's bones. It was time to put everything back together and put someone in there who could take care of things. DeLuna noticed the back of his hand as he lifted his espresso. His tan was fading, and the sun in Miami was warm this time of year. "Is the wholesale yard still operational?" he asked, referring to Sonny's place.

"As far as we know," Johnny answered, right on top of things. "But we need to get Big Tony back into the picture. Without him, the wholesale yard ain't makin' no runs, and the numbers is dead in the water. Without the numbers we got no place to wash down the money unless we start up another game, which we should probably do anyway." Johnny tapped his little spiral notebook with authority, proudly punctuating his recommendation.

DeLuna was not pleased, however. What Johnny had just said was obvious: Big Tony was the key to it all, and he'd fucked up big time. "The man's another idiot, the wrong image for our organization. We need to replace him."

"Big Tony?" Johnny questioned, daring to disagree. "He's okay boss. He ain't too bright, but he ran a tight ship. Gagliano just screwed him up a little, that's all."

DeLuna nodded out of respect for Johnny's experience. It was probably the best they could do for now, and at least the operation could be gotten back on track. A replacement could be found later, someone more professional. They could put someone in training. That's what any major corporation would do. "Where is he now?" DeLuna asked.

"Don't know," said Johnny. "He ain't been answerin' his phone."

"What's going on at the dealership?"

"It's kinda fucked up, boss. They still got that skinny rich bitch runnin' the place, so our operation's kinda shut down with Big Tony and Holtzman gone."

"We need to get them back in there and get the operation back on its feet. It's costing us too much to sit on our ass. Find that fat bastard, and move on it. Okay, Johnny?"

"Yes boss, right away. More coffee?"

Chapter 63... Atlantic Avenue

It was Friday, September 6th, Rita O'Shea's four-year anniversary as a police officer. She was no rookie now, and she wondered if the routine realities of the job were causing her to become a less caring person than she wanted to be. Ho-hum, tag 'em and bag 'em; do the reports; what's for dinner? Was it true? she wondered.

She rolled down the window on the unmarked Ford and gazed aimlessly at the asphalt-covered playground where perhaps twenty men, most of them black, all of them poor, she speculated, were gathered for a softball game on the blacktop. Probably none of them had jobs, she guessed further, so they were out there thumping softballs and hanging with the unmarried mamas whose children they had fathered somewhere along the way. They showed off the muscles on their often-tattooed arms, and they slapped and bounced, and shucked and rolled, and grabbed themselves for the benefit of the onlooking women, trying to show off the muscles between their legs, as well. Many of the women were already familiar with those, it seemed, as was evidenced by the number of babies in attendance. She was ashamed of herself for her own inner biases, for her own stereotyping of the scene in front of her, but she knew that the facts confirmed what she was thinking.

Morena eased the Ford to the curb in front of the Hamburger Hut. "Coffee?" he asked.

Aimlessly, Rita said, "Sure." She dropped the door on the glove compartment and continued to watch the game on the other side of Atlantic Avenue. One of the bigger dudes pounded the softball into the center field blacktop where it smacked into the chain link fence and died. He trotted the bases like Reggie Jackson, his expensive white sneakers flashing in the brilliant sunlight. They were probably among his most prized possessions, she imagined, hearing the crisp soul-slaps clear across the playground as he reached home plate.

Morena came back with the coffee and snapped the little tab off his cup lid. "You glad to be back in the rotation?" he asked.

Rita set her cup down on the opened glove compartment door. "I'm not sure. I've been doing a lot of soul searching lately." She paused. "Sure is a nice day," she added, trying to deflect the conversation.

Morena held his thoughts. She was more than detached. She was out of it, morbid almost. "Sure is," he said, sipping coffee. He talked without turning his head. "You okay?"

Rita dropped the visor and slipped on a pair of sunglasses, the same cheap pair she'd bought on Jamaica Avenue a few weeks earlier for two bucks. The sun reflected off them like a welding spark. It was as if she was trying to hide behind them, but her insecurity gushed out in a surge of emotion. "No... I'm not," she said, also looking straight ahead as if doing so would make the conversation less personal.

He nodded and let everything settle, his eyes tracing the huge steel columns of the overhead Long Island Railroad operating along Atlantic Avenue. The columns seemed to run on forever, the space under the tracks a black ribbon of shade that disappeared into oblivion. "Do you want to talk about it?"

The September sun wasn't doing much to keep her warm, and Rita sipped some coffee. The heat dissipated as soon as it hit her stomach, and she was an ice cube again. Her uneasiness gnawing at her, she tried to stay tough; cops were supposed to be tough.

"I'm here whenever you're ready to talk," Morena offered. "You just say when."

Rita looked over. "Thanks, Hector, but I have to work this out on my own."

"No problem," he said, handing her his coffee and starting the car. Mercifully, he moved to another topic. "What did Grimstead say when you filled him in this morning?"

Rita clicked off her version of the briefing. "I thought he'd be pleased, but the more I said, the more he seemed to get ticked off. He said what we had on the dealership was small potatoes compared to the real prize. I think he wants DeLuna's head on a silver platter."

"You're probably right. I've seen higher ups get that way when they smell a big turkey in the hunt. It's as if they go into some kind of zone."

"That's it exactly. He had this sense about it, about DeLuna. It was as if everything I said meant something about DeLuna, when most of it had nothing to do with him at all, as far as I could see. I was simply telling him what was happening at the dealership."

"Which, at this point, is all mute because the perps don't work there anymore."

"Right," she said, obviously annoyed. "Two months of undercover work down the drain."

Morena said, "Not necessarily." He slipped the car into drive just as a delivery truck double-parked, boxing him in. He put the car into park again. "They're not about to simply give up and move their operations, not unless they've got other avenues of distribution established, or other dealerships maybe. Do you know of any others?"

Rita could have knocked herself in the head. "I don't know," she admitted. "And any good businessman would have a backup plan, wouldn't he?"

"If the business is worth it. How much do you figure was being funneled through there?"

"We know about the hot computers. That must have been at least a hundred thousand right there. Plus, we figured a few kilos of cocaine went through there every month; then you have to add in whatever the laundering operation produced."

Morena craned his neck, looking for the driver of the delivery truck. "And don't forget the numbers. I've seen numbers rackets that pulled in a hundred thou a week."

"A week?"

"A week," he confirmed. "Put it all together and that dealership could have produced several million a year for our friend DeLuna, if indeed he's connected to it as strongly as Grimstead thinks." The truck driver appeared and Morena whistled. "Hey! Move this thing, huh!" He flashed his badge out the window.

The driver waved him off and proceeded to load his hand truck as if Morena didn't even exist. "Keep your fucking pants on," he yelled back in typical Big Apple fashion.

A small vein in Morena's forehead started pulsing. "We still got a ticket book in there?"

"I think so," said Rita, rummaging through the glove box.

"That means they're losing money, and they've got inventory backing up. They're not going to give up that kind of business."

A train rumbled loudly overhead, and Rita waited for it to pass. She thought about the softball game across the street, and wondered how many poor souls there were affected by operations like the dealership. She wondered how many of those people shot drugs into their veins at night, drugs that came from DeLuna's operation. She wondered how many of those children would grow up with their mothers unwed, and their fathers in jail, or dead.

Morena was outside, arguing with the driver of the truck who wasn't happy with the ticket he'd just received. Seeing Morena's intensity, her thoughts shifted back to her own career. She'd heard the stories about how young cops often became frustrated by the system, about how they lost the altruism they carried into the job. Her thoughts shifted yet again, and she thought of Henry, who'd never understand what she was going through, never in a million years. Seeing Morena jab a finger at the driver of the truck, he hadn't lost it, she thought, and he'd been on the job for fifteen years. Not all of them lost it. Not the good ones.

The truck pulled off and Morena came back and slipped the car into gear. "The people at that dealership are in trouble, aren't they?" she asked.

"I think they're in serious trouble," he said convincingly.

"You think we're back to square one?"

"I'm not sure, but something has got to happen. The dirtbags are going to resume operations; that you can bet on. That means they'll either change locations, or take back the dealership."

Rita nodded. Morena did a U-turn and went the other way. "Why are we going this way?" she asked.

"I want to check on my mom. She lives just down the road in Woodhaven."

They rode in silence for a few minutes, passing worn buildings with For Rent signs in front. "Hector?" she said after a while.

"Yeah."

"I need a place to live."

Morena pulled to a curb along Atlantic Avenue for the second time in fifteen minutes. Turning to Rita, he said, "Do you want to talk about it now?"

Chapter 64... Across Town

Paul Barrons' well-groomed receptionist pranced down the hall with just enough hip movement that it could have been considered a natural gait, which it wasn't. That walk had been practiced, and the little tease knew exactly how much ass-waving she could get away with before it would be considered offensive. The plush carpeting absorbed any sound from her glossy heels, and Patty was ready to puke on it. The waiting was unbearable. The receptionist was back in a flash.

"More tea?" she asked, flashing her smile too quickly.

Patty wondered how many fake smiles those lips made in a day, and what else they'd be used for on the girl's way to the top. "No thanks," she said sourly. She looked at her watch. Where the hell was her mother? Like the whole world revolved around her. She got up and paced nervously on the heavy carpet.

"Mister Barrons will see you now," the receptionist said after a while, her plastic smile again at the ready. "Right this way."

"I know where it is," said Patty, realizing that she sounded bitchy as hell, but politeness was the last thing on her mind. She burst into the office, finding her mother already inside fiddling with her whirl of champagne hair. "How long have you been here?" she snarled.

His face displaying more synthetic sincerity, Paul Barrons got up and said, "It's nice to see you again, Patricia." He held out his hand. Patty didn't take it. Not missing a beat, he moved into a sweeping motion and indicated a chair. Patty stood.

"Are you going to answer me?" Patty asked briskly.

"When you address me properly," Shannon said into the ceiling. She brushed some nothing off her suit and waited patiently for Patty to atone herself.

The words popped from Patty's mouth like bullets. "When I address you properly! Why you—"

Barrons might as well have been wearing a striped shirt. "Ladies!" he said, stepping between them. "Not today. I have things to do, and I can't spend half the morning babysitting you two!" He took a seat behind his huge desk. "Now, what's this about Patricia? This is your meeting." He looked at his Rolex impatiently.

Patty waited for her blood to go from boil to simmer. "I want to buy you out," she said plainly. "How much do you want for the dealership?" Her gaze was glued to her mother.

Shannon's derisive laugh might as well have been a blowtorch. "You want to buy me out?"

"Yes. How much?"

"Where will you get the money?"

Barrons folded his hands, no longer worrying about the time now. This was going to be good.

"I'll get it," said Patty. "You're not the only one with connections in this town." Her stare could have frozen a steak.

Barrons' head swiveled back and forth. Too bad these two were always on opposite sides. They could make quite a pair if they ever stopped fighting. Another notion crept into his head that Patty would make quite a good poker player. Her coming up with the money wouldn't surprise him a bit.

Shannon's smile barely curled her lips. "I doubt you could get the money without my help, and even if you could, it would take a lot more than you could possibly raise. Don't be so sure of yourself, Patricia dear."

Patricia dear! But, Patty didn't explode. She was ice. "How much," she asked slowly, her voice level. She waited.

"You couldn't afford it," Shannon said.

"How... much?"

"Even if you could get the money, I wouldn't sell it to you."

"And why not, may I ask?"

Shannon folded her hands into her lap. For a second, there was a slight indication that some moisture was actually forming in the corner of one eye, but she dabbed it with a tissue, putting an end to any speculation that could possibly have happened. She met Patty's gaze. "That dealership is no place for a Fairchild. It's beneath you."

"And what, exactly, do you mean by that? It's a business, isn't it, just like any other business?"

Shannon poised herself, as she always did when she was about to issue a proclamation. "That's no way for my daughter to make a living, not with all those...."

"What, mother?"

"Not with all those, you know... dark people. You can do better."

Barrons leaned back and prepared for round two. Round one, he figured, had been a draw. He looked at Patty and sensed her insides were like lava forming inside a volcano.

"Better?" Patty said sarcastically. "Better than what, Mother? Are you saying that what I choose to do for a living has to meet with your approval?"

That wasn't what Shannon had meant, and Barrons knew it, but it was good enough to fuel the fire. No low punches so far. He let the match go on.

Shannon sat stoically, and Patty's words bounced off her.

"Are you going to answer me?" Patty demanded.

"As I said, that dealership is no place for a Fairchild, and it's no way for a Vassar girl to make a living."

"Oh, so you'd rather I got coffee and made copies like that little tart in the lobby, or would you rather I fuck old men on the side for my money?" Patty speared Paul Barrons with a look as she said it. "Is that it mother? Just so it looks respectable—right Paul," she added.

"It's not what your father would have wanted for you."

The lava inched higher into the neck of the volcano. "My father has nothing to do with this. This is about what you want. You want to control everything—what I do, who I see, what I say—just so your society friends can see what a nice little girl you raised. Well, I'm not interested in your approval, or that of your lily-white WASP blue blood socialites, not now, not ever. Now, mother dear, how... much?"

Shannon looked her straight in the face. "Twenty-five million."

Patty laughed. "You can't be serious?"

"If you want to play, you've got to pay," Shannon said coldly.

The lava didn't blow into the sky as Barrons expected. It just flowed out the top and oozed. "I'm going to find a way to buy that dealership mother, and I'm going to make it profitable, just to prove to you once and for all that I can do it. You can't control my life forever."

Paul Barrons watched as Patty hurriedly gathered her things and left. Then, he felt Shannon's gaze as it settled on him.

"So Paul," she said, "how is the young bitch in the sack?"

Chapter 65... Duh!

The thoughts scampered around inside Carmen's head as if it was a New York City intersection with a million cars and no traffic lights. Having another person in the apartment provided a reason to make a pot of coffee in the morning, and he slid the plastic cone onto the coffee maker. It was admittedly a small pleasure, but there'd been few of them lately, so he'd bought some special coffee beans and put them through one of those noisy grinding machines.

The first thought that popped into his head was how long Rita would stay. The second thought followed immediately, and it gnawed on him. He hadn't called his parents in a couple of days, and the image of the brick flying through their window came back to him. The fear and confusion in his mother's eyes was vivid in his head.

"Why would anyone throw a brick through our window?" his mom had asked. "And why would anyone tape a note to it that said From Carmen? What kind of cruel joke is that?"

"It's just some punks from the neighborhood," he'd said, lying through his teeth. It was enough to satisfy her, but he hadn't done so well when she'd asked about the fading bruises on his face. "I got into a car accident on a test drive," he lied again. "But I'm all right. Don't worry about it." She did worry, however, and so did his dad, and he, Carmen, wasn't fine. His ribs ached, and pain shot through his chest when he moved the wrong way. He had the feeling it would be that way for a while. Thankfully, his face was looking better. He pushed on it, testing the tenderness there.

Thought number three crashed into thought number two, and Billy's face hung in his mind's eye like a portrait. He pictured Billy's ugly brown smile and defiant pose clearly as he recalled the recent Labor Day morning when he'd grabbed Billy by the jaw. Revenge would be sweet, and somehow Billy would pay, that bastard. Where's the club? Billy's question echoed in his head, and Billy had no clue that he, Carmen, knew who'd said it. There was no doubt about it. Another face appeared, right next to Billy's. It was Delmo's.

The coffee maker made a final gurgle, and Carmen grabbed a couple of mugs as he thought about Delmo, or, more appropriately, Delmo's hand. Delmo's right hand had scabs on it, red, fresh scabs, on chocolate skin. His mind's eye traced the same path as it did when he'd initialed Delmo's sales order on Labor Day: he noticed the scabs first, then the look on Delmo's face. It was a frozen look, features unmoving so as not to reveal any emotion. But the hand.... The hand said volumes. That hand had collided with something, and Carmen wondered if the bruises on his face were the same shape as Delmo's knuckles. He remembered how Delmo had pulled the hand away quickly, putting it into his pocket. And, was it his imagination, or had Delmo been avoiding him lately? Delmo hadn't said a word to him since that Monday. That was five days ago—not one single word.

Crash. Thought number five moved in. It was like one of those kaleidoscope things, with lots of colors mooshing around into each other, except that the colors were faces—women's faces. There was Patty's face, thin and drawn, her hair yellow, for the most part, her skin almost colorless, white as any white person could be. The colors were punctuated by steely blue dots, which were her eyes. The yellow/white combination gave way to Rita's mix of colors. The hair was red, the skin pale rose, and the eyes just as blue, just as steely, as Patty's. It melted into a darker image, the red splotch of color that was Rita's hair replaced by a smaller red splotch, which were Chita's lips: a shocking red line in the middle of a face the color of toast, smooth and supple, the dark brown of her curls framing her features. The image was smiling at him. It was a nice smile, but it changed, and the next splash of color came into view. It was dark, very dark, mixed with blood red, and Carmen pictured the image of Lawanda Hoopes laughing at him with the back of her head blown off. Suddenly, the light inside the kaleidoscope was gone, covered by a huge shadow, and the big face of Big Tony appeared. A sound from behind shocked Carmen from his walking nightmare.

"Mmmm. Smells good," said Rita as she set a single suitcase down outside the hallway with the stove and refrigerator in it. "Don't you have a Saturday morning meeting to get to?"

Carmen poured some coffee. "I've got time. Going somewhere?"

"I've outstayed my welcome."

"Don't be silly," he said, handing her a cup. "Actually, I like having you around."

"Maybe you just feel safer with an armed cop in the next room."

"That too. I've been looking over my shoulder all week." He eyed the suitcase. "You know, you might get lonely living alone."

"I'm looking forward to loneliness then."

"You won't like it. Why don't you stay a while longer? It's only been a few days."

"I'm intruding."

"No you're not."

"Of course I am."

"How can you be intruding if I'm saying you're not? You can stay as long as you want. I don't mind."

Rita eyed him over the top of the mug. "You have a tender side that you don't show very much, Kid Madrid. You should wear it more often. It looks good on you."

A blush warmed him along with the coffee. "You sound like my mother—and Chita."

"They're right. That cocky image doesn't become you. You should do your hair different, or something. Don't be such... such a used car salesman type."

"I didn't know I was, and I sell new cars."

"Of course you are. You've been cultivating the look for as long as I've known you."

He considered her advice. "So you should stay and help me change the image."

"I told you, I'm leaving."

"Where are you going?"

"Hector found a place for me. I'm putting a deposit on it today."

"You can stay here for free."

"Like I said, I'm intruding."

His disappointment more than apparent, "I think my life could use a little intrusion," he said.

Rita put the cup down and turned, slinging her coat over her shoulder. "It's not only your life I'm intruding upon."

He went over to help with the bag. "What are you talking about?"

Rita took the suitcase and put it back down. She turned, taking both his hands into hers. "Wake up and smell the coffee," she said, making the pun.

"What coffee? I don't get it."

"C'mon Carmen, do I have to draw you a picture?"

Chapter 66... Showdown

His fingers tingled. He stood; he sat; he crossed his legs; he uncrossed them; he couldn't stop fidgeting. His stomach felt permanently empty, but his throat felt like he'd swallowed a hammer, handle first, and the claw got snagged on his Adam's apple. He tried to force it down with a jelly donut.

Patty was all wound up and was talking a mile a minute, going on and on about extended warranties and other various topics, all important stuff for a Saturday meeting, and for Carmen it went in one ear and out the other. The donut got hung up on the hammer claw and hardened like cement when he thought about the scene outside her apartment four days earlier. He'd never mentioned it to her, figuring she'd bring it up if she wanted to. Surely she knew what happened. How could she not know?

"And so," Patty continued, moving on to important procedure number four, "on any transactions with the three-month deferred financing, we'll need to get at least a third down. Now, in the event that your customers don't have the up-front money, we can try and split the deal and have another house finance the down payment. Here's how all that will work. Chita Espino from our F & I department will explain the details."

Patty stepped to the side as Chita took her place on the tower and handed down some papers for everyone to pass around. Surprisingly, there was no wisecracking from the guys. Carmen wondered if they were really paying attention, or if they were just trying to look up her skirt, which didn't extend much below mid-thigh. In any case, all eyes were on her, except his.

He was up in the tower, seated in front of the big mahogany desk, and Chita's body was a live silhouette against the bank of windows that stretched the length of the showroom. Those windows could be blinding when it was bright outside, annoyingly so, and it wasn't unusual for people to face away from them. The sun was peeking over the buildings along Jamaica Avenue, sending rays of brightness into the street. Carmen jigged his chair and repositioned himself, trying to avoid an irritating point of light. He scooted his chair over a second time, and looked up to see if he'd been successful. He had. Repositioning his eyes, he waited for them to adjust. Moments later, the brilliant point of light stabbed him in the eye again. "Damn," he said to himself, and he scooted his chair yet a third time. This time, he moved it over a couple of feet, looking for the source of the reflection. That's when he spotted the nose of the long black Lincoln as it turned in ever so slowly off the avenue. It inched past the gates, sniffing, skulking, its exhausts belching vapor in short puffs. It took forever for the entire length of the car to make it through the gates, and it stopped as if it were scouting the surroundings. For a second he expected the headlights to move from side to side.

Looking down off the tower, he realized no one besides him had seen the car. All the salesmen were looking up as Chita outlined the details of the financing offer on a flipchart. Carmen looked back. The nosey Lincoln inched forward some more, right up to the showroom windows as if it were trying to eavesdrop. Inside, the driver's head was a black spot, unmoving. Suddenly, the big Lincoln settled back, the transmission having evidently been taken out of Drive and snapped into Park. It was almost as if it had been taken out of Attack and put into Down Boy. The exhausts continued to belch fumes in a steady stream.

There was another black spot in the back seat, larger, and also unmoving. Carmen detected the spot's glare clean through the inches of glass between them, and it penetrated him thoroughly. Staring back at the spot, he had a feeling he knew who it was, and suddenly he felt as if he had bugs under his shirt.

The back door popped open, just a crack, and stayed that way for a few seconds before it swung open and twanged on its hinges. Like a colossus, Big Tony's huge body rose from inside, and the car seemed to gasp in relief, having rid itself of some enormous fart. Slowly, Big Tony buttoned the jacket of his expensive, olive-green suit, and ran a hand down his perfectly slicked hair before slamming the door with a thunderous thud. Everyone turned, and Chita stopped talking. Big Tony hauled his huge poundage along the sidewalk, stepping along purposefully, and Carmen expected the earth to shake as if they were all in some sort of Jolly Green Giant commercial. The hiss from the entrance door was extraordinarily loud inside the showroom, as was Tanisha's bubble-headed greeting. Patty stood up, her fists clenched at her side, ready for whatever was about to happen.

Big Tony moved between the cars, which were seemingly cowering in fear. The crowd of salesmen parted, several of them extending hands, and Big Tony shook them like Patton among his troops. The coarse greetings rang with enthusiasm.

Carmen stood so as to get a better view, and he realized that the three of them, Patty, Chita, and himself, looked like some sort of line of defense. A showy black dude named Donelle stepped forward, shucking and bouncing from foot to foot. Obnoxiously, he proclaimed his allegiance to Big Tony.

"Sa...aay mother... fucker! When you gonna come back here man, so we kin make some real money?" Big Tony ignored him.

"Donelle!" Patty's voice rang out like a gunshot.

Donelle looked up, his homeboy smile disappearing instantly. "What 'chu want, m...aaaan?"

"You're fired! Get out." Donelle didn't move, his face doing that hard ghetto intimidation thing. Patty took a step forward. "Now!" she screamed, her voice sharp as a razor blade. Again, Donelle didn't move, daring her silently.

Watching the standoff, Carmen felt the anger bubble inside him, and suddenly he wanted to step off the tower and choke the shit out of Donelle.

Moving through the throng of stunned salesmen, Big Tony brushed Donelle aside as Billy came up and stood with him at the base of the tower. Billy lit a cigarette, and Delmo came up from the other side. A couple of others came forward and joined them, as well. It was like some sort of damned showdown, thought Carmen. Nobody blinked.

"Hire him back," Billy called out boldly, blowing a huge cloud of smoke toward Patty. "Or we walk, all of us. We're gonna walk, right guys?" A murmur moved through the salesmen, and it escalated into a dull clamor.

"Yeah... bitch!" someone called from the middle of the throng.

Patty took a final step forward, right to the edge of the top step. Carmen didn't know why, but he did the same. "Billy," she called. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

Finally, Big Tony moved all the way in, his toes touching the bottom step. Patty and Big Tony could have punched each other, and Carmen had no doubt Patty would have heaved one had she known about the scene outside her home three days earlier. How could she not know? he asked himself again. She hadn't said anything, though. Maybe she didn't know. Was it possible?

Big Tony looked up, his huge body totally covering the six steps in shadow. "You're going down," he growled, and he turned toward Carmen. "And so are you punk, and your spic bitch girlfriend too."

Chita's face flushed red as Big Tony turned back toward the entrance with half a dozen salesmen following him to the door. Billy and Delmo led the pack. "You're going down," he yelled again, a fat finger pointed at the tower.

Carmen watched through the windows as the group engaged in a display of visual insults. As a final gesture before stuffing his girth back into the Lincoln, Big Tony pointed to the tower again, this time fashioning his hand into the shape of a gun. The Lincoln roared to life, rocking from side to side as the engine revved powerfully. Big Tony pretended to fire and then disappeared into the car along with Delmo and three other salesmen. Billy yanked a set of keys from his pocket, and stole a brand-new Monte Carlo off the lot.

Chapter 67... After Mass

The smell alone was enough to make him gag. The feeling in the pit of his stomach hadn't gone away since Big Tony's visit to the dealership the previous day, but now it was sickeningly worse. A whole section of the house was black and charred. It hadn't been reduced to ashes, which in a way would have been better, for that would have been cleaner. As it was, the house at 113-42 37th Avenue was like a burn victim waiting to die. Almost nothing had burned completely, but had been licked by the flames, blackened, or melted just enough to make it useless. Everything was worthless, smelling of smoke and burned foam, coated with a black, sticky mud made of soot and filthy water. Carmen looked into the window of his old bedroom with his heart in his throat and tears welling in his eyes. His mother stood next to him clutching a few pieces of broken junk she'd picked up from the front yard.

"We were at Sunday mass when it started," she said simply. "We came back and there were all these fire trucks in the street."

Carmen looked into his mother's eyes and the emotion seized him. "How...." he began.

"We have no idea," his mother said. A tear fell off her eyelash and washed down her smudged face. "Everything was fine as far as we knew. I have no idea where we'll stay until we can take care of this."

A fire inspector walked by, his thick rubber boots coated with mud and grime. He headed to an old red Chevy with NYFD on the side, and said something into a microphone. Carmen hugged his mom. "You'll stay with me, of course."

"Thank you, Carmen. It's nice to see that you haven't abandoned all your values because of that job."

What the hell did she mean by that? he asked himself. Surely, it was just emotion talking. She was shell-shocked, that's all. Who wouldn't be? He hadn't lost his values, had he? The question gnawed on him. Let it pass, he told himself, but he couldn't. She was just upset, he rationalized, but it was like a drop of acid eating away at a piece of tin foil. Just exactly what did she mean? He didn't get a chance to ask. His father came over from the red fire department car and put his arms around both of them.

"It was arson," he said directly.

"Arson?" Carmen questioned. "How did they find out so quickly?"

His father pointed toward the inspector who was still talking into the microphone. "They found the remains of a gasoline can where the fire started. I don't own a gasoline can."

Carmen looked down at the little patch of lawn on which they were standing. His father had mowed that patch of grass with the same old clunky push mower for as long as he could remember. A sudden panic moved in, and the hammer that had been stuck in his throat for two days fell into his stomach like a ton of rocks. Arson! The brick! His parents didn't make the connection, but he did. They didn't know about the second brick, the one that had flown over the fence onto the hood of the Impala at the dealership. They didn't know about Big Tony's visit back there the previous day.

"Who would do such a thing?" his mother cried, sobbing into his shoulder.

They had no idea who would do such a thing, but he did. He did! Those bastards! And Chita! What about Chita? What had Big Tony said? You and your spic bitch girlfriend too.

"I have to go," Carmen said suddenly.

Somewhat bewildered, "Where are you going?" his mother asked.

"I have to make a phone call. Where's the nearest pay phone?"

"Down the street at the A & P," his father answered. "You have to make a call now? Can't it wait?"

Carmen looked down 37th Avenue. The food store was about a block away. "No, it can't," he shouted as he turned and started sprinting down the street. The bile percolated in his stomach as he made his way to the pay phone. Quickly, he shoved a quarter into the slot and dialed Chita's number. He knew it by heart. She answered.

"Chita... this is Carmen. Is everything all right at your house?"

His panic reflected right back through the phone line. "No. Why are you asking?"

"Just answer me," he said breathlessly.

"It's my sister."

"What happened?"

Chita didn't respond right away. "You know we've been having problems with her for a while."

"Yes, yes. What happened?"

"Well, there was a fire, a small one. It started in her room. Somehow, a bottle of alcohol caught fire, and my parents think she was doing drugs. They're ballistic."

"She wasn't."

"How do you know?" Chita asked slowly, her tone measured.

"I just know, that's all. I can explain later. Tell your parents that she's telling the truth, and convince them that they're in danger, and so are you."

"Carmen, what's going on? It's them, isn't it?"

Chapter 68... Getting Better All The Time

If it weren't for the sign, no one would even know it was a precinct house. It was like an outpost, a lonely vanguard in the war against crime and the despair. Rita stepped from the unmarked Ford and opened the door for her two passengers. Carmen and Chita stepped onto the dirt, splashing little clouds of polluted dust onto their shoes. It had been a dry day in New York City. Morena followed them into the station.

Carmen had never been inside a police station, and for some reason he expected wooden benches and an old white-haired cop sitting behind a high desk. What he got were a few filthy metal chairs on muddy linoleum. There were perhaps fifteen people in the room, all of them black, except for the cops. There was no blood on the floor at the moment.

Rita quickly took charge. "Coffee machine is over there," she said. "We'll be back in a few minutes." She turned and walked off with Morena.

Carmen noticed a heavy door as he approached the machine, and he guessed that's where the bad guys were kept. He didn't even want to think about who, or what, was back there. He turned his attention to the coffee machine, and the urge for coffee went away.

"How are you doing?" he asked Chita when he returned. She held his arm. He knew it was a reaction, but it felt good just the same.

"I'm scared," she said. "I've been looking over my shoulder all day."

"I know what you mean. I've been doing the same thing. I think I'm better off not knowing if anyone is back there."

"How are you're parents?"

"Dazed," he answered, thinking she looked the same.

"Are they at your place?"

"Yeah. How are yours?"

"Scared too. My father stayed home from work today, and my mom says they've been looking out the window all day. I wish there was something someone could do—anything."

"That's why we're here," Carmen said, reminding her of their mission.

Chita gripped his arm tighter and tried to move closer. "I'm cold."

Rita came back and led them to small office. Morena was already inside. Carmen took one of two chairs and zeroed in on a third cop sitting behind a desk. He was one of those pock-marked guys who looked like he didn't take any shit. Nobody talked while he finished reading whatever was written on the single piece of paper he was holding.

"Do they know about this?" the cop asked, looking up and nodding at Carmen and Chita.

"Not all of it," Rita replied. "Just the part about the dealership itself."

Grimstead set the paper down and folded his hands, forming a mass about the size of a football.

"What's going on?" Carmen asked, seeing the uncertain looks on their faces.

Grimstead glanced at Rita and Morena, both of whom stood like statues. "You're playing with some very bad boys," he said. He pushed the single piece of paper across the desk.

Carmen scanned it. "Who is Michael DeLuna?" he asked a few moments later.

Grimstead let out a long sigh. "Get some coffee," he said to no one in particular, and Morena got up. "I guess it might be more dangerous if you don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"Michael DeLuna is il capo dei capi, the boss of bosses. We've been trying to get to him for years." He looked at Rita, who was staring back uneasily.

Carmen shook his head. "Capo, capi... what does that have to do with any of this, with us?"

Grimstead leaned forward so that no one could misinterpret his meaning. "Michael DeLuna is The Godfather."

The color drained from Carmen's face. "You mean we're involved with... the Mafia?" He glanced at Chita, whose mouth had suddenly fallen open.

"I'd say you're more than involved," said Grimstead. "I'd say you're in it pretty deep."

Carmen got the feeling that the next couple of hours could determine how he lived the rest of his life. "How deep?"

"I'd say right up to your ass, kid."

Morena came back with some Styrofoam cups of coffee. Grimstead took one and handed the conversation to Rita. "It's your case," he said.

Rita took a moment and surveyed the room while Grimstead, his face and his attitude hard as nails, waited to see what she was going to do. "I know you guys are scared," she said to Carmen and Chita, "and having become friends with you was probably a mistake—"

"It's a little too late to worry about that now, don't you think?" Carmen spat out.

Rita glanced at Morena, who nodded his go-ahead. "We're gonna need your help," she said. "Here's how this whole thing came down."

"So..." Carmen concluded when she finished, "... when Big Tony pointed his finger through the picture window, there was more behind it than just talk."

"Much more," she said.

"Maybe not," Morena chimed in. "The mob doesn't like to draw attention to itself by grandstanding like that. It could have been Big Tony just being stupid and trying to be a big shot."

"A big shot," Chita mumbled sourly. "Car guys... how typical."

"Stupid or not," said Grimstead, "they're trying to drive you out, and next time they're not gonna do it with matches."

"Are we going to die if we don't give in to them?" Carmen asked bluntly, increasingly alarmed by Grimstead's tone.

"Let's just say you would be in significant physical danger, just like you are now," Grimstead said, not trying to be coy about anything. "If I were you, I'd consider getting very far away from this place, like maybe Idaho."

Carmen thought of his parents, huddled in despair inside his apartment. "I can't do that," he said with as much conviction as he could muster.

"That's up to you," Grimstead said, "but you're gonna need to help us if we're gonna help you." He studied the piece of paper he'd been reading earlier. "I have another question. It strikes me as odd that all this is coming down on you two and nothing's happened to, what's-her-name...?" He leaned over the paper. "... this Fairchild woman. She could be in more danger than both of you."

"I think they tried," Carmen said as he took a quick look at Rita.

Grimstead said, "O'Shea?"

"We think Big Tony tried to have Patty hit."

"There's a surprise. Do we know by whom?"

"One Lawanda Hoopes, a.k.a., the Black Widow. Here's the sheet on her."

Grimstead leaned back in his chair. "And you know this... how?"

Chita spoke to the lieutenant for the first time. "Carmen and I were there," she said. "We saw it."

"This gets better all the time," said Grimstead. "You folks wanna tell me about it?"

Chapter 69... A Permanent Solution

If he had all these people to take care of things, then why the hell did he need to handle all these details himself? DeLuna snapped the day planner closed after reading the tickler note he'd written almost a week earlier. Motioning for the driver to drop the glass separating the limo's passenger compartment from the front seat, "Find a phone booth," he commanded. They exited the LIE and five minutes later, Johnny Legs answered his call promptly. "Johnny, Mister Johnson here."

"Yes, boss."

"Johnson, Johnny, call me Mister Johnson when we're using the phone, remember?" Even a simple thing like using the phone was hard to accomplish.

"Yeah, sure Mister Johnson, sir."

Keeping his cool while his driver and the limo waited patiently to resume the trip to his mansion in Oyster Bay, DeLuna asked, "Johnny, is our man back in control at that dealership yet?"

"We're working on it boss. I think we're just about there."

Boss again. Might as well be Yes, Godfather. "What do you mean, just about? I thought we were clear on this issue."

"I am clear boss. It's just that it's gonna take a couple 'a more days, that's all."

"Listen Johnny, it's costing us ten thousand a day to keep screwing around with this, maybe more. Eddie Jackson's chomping at the bit to step into the territory, and Conte will edge in from the Island if we don't finalize this move soon, and I mean very soon." There was silence on the other end of the line. "Johnny, you there?"

"I'm here boss. It's just that you said to not be so—what was the word—ostentatious, on this one."

"There's a difference between not being blatant and being ineffective. How much longer?" Fucking Johnny probably didn't even know what ostentatious meant.

"We'll have him back in within a week."

"A week? I thought you just said a couple of days."

"Well, one of the moves we planned didn't turn out quite right."

DeLuna didn't know what the hell Johnny was talking about, nor did he care. All he knew was that this dealership thing was turning into a real pain in the ass. He'd already postponed his fishing trip to the Keys once. "A week, Johnny. You got a week to get this thing done. Understand?"

"Understand, boss."

DeLuna angrily hung up the phone. He'd have to postpone his trip again. Good help was hard to find.

* * * * *

Johnny pushed his flash button once and immediately dialed another number. "We need to move faster on the blonde bitch," he said when someone picked up. There was no need for a greeting.

"When?"

"As soon as possible. Within the week. Boss man's getting antsy."

"No problem. What about the kids?"

"Forget them. Concentrate on the queen bee. They'll fold as soon as she's out of the way."

"What if they don't?"

"Handle it if it happens."

There was one final question. "How?"

"I don't care. Just make it permanent. And make sure no one gets in the way this time. Got it?"

"No problem."

The line went dead.

Chapter 70... The Revelation

"Why are we going this way?"

"It's a little out of the way, but I thought this would be easier than traveling the Van Wyck first thing in the morning." Looking around, Carmen checked the door locks on his demo car and proceeded down Lefferts Boulevard, stopping at the light at Rockaway Boulevard. He took a left and realized that it might have been better to endure the traffic along the expressway rather than the splendid scenery of southeast Queens. Chita was in the passenger seat, sulking silently. She'd been that way most of the week since their first visit to the precinct. She looked out aimlessly as they hopped from light to light. It was gloomy and cold with the first touch of fall in the air, and it wasn't long before she hiked her coat higher around her neck as if it would protect her.

"Dear Lord," she said a few minutes later. "Where are we?"

There were dudes along Rockaway Boulevard, cold dudes, gathered on the street corners in front of the Latino markets whose pull-down armored gates were covered with grime and graffiti. Their eyes blazing red first thing in the morning, they stared at every car that passed, especially his, Carmen noticed, seeing that it was new. Evidently new cars attracted attention in this part of town. A few moments passed before he answered Chita's question. He wanted to make sure a couple of dudes that were staring weren't going to pounce.

"I think we're in South Jamaica headed into Springfield Gardens," he said, stomping on the gas pedal. They took a left onto Baisley Boulevard, but the atmosphere didn't get much brighter. At 161st Place they passed a pod of activity: a white Cadillac surrounded by cop cars, no lights flashing. No emergency there, he speculated, concluding that if there was someone inside the Caddy, he or she was probably dead. Finally, they made it to their destination.

"Check it out," he said, surprised to see Patty's yellow Corvette parked outside. Inside, the atmosphere was as gloomy as it was outside. They stood close, gathering their share of once-overs from dirtbags and cops alike, most of them aimed at Chita, Carmen observed. It wasn't long before Morena found them.

"Rita and Patty are already here," he said. "They're back in the interrogation room."

Carmen didn't like the sound of that, for some reason. Oddly, the first thought that came into his head was: Who's going to open up the dealership this morning? The dealership. That damned dealership. Seeing Rita, "How's your new place?" he asked.

"It'll do," she said coolly.

Well, that was short and sweet, and he left it alone. Everyone gathered around a battered table, and he wondered how many drugged-out scumbags had sat there. Touching anything didn't seem like a good idea.

"Why are we all here?" Patty demanded.

Calmly, Morena said, "I know we've been over this before, but let's take it from the top just for old time's sake." He reviewed the facts in order to get everyone on the same page. "... and we know, without a doubt, that the dealership's best customer—or former best customer, I should say—was heavy into prostitution and distribution in the Jamaica and South Jamaica areas." He let the facts sink in.

"So?" Patty snapped out, misunderstanding Morena's implication. "We don't need his business. We can make the dealership profitable without him."

"So..." said Carmen, "him and Big Tony were working together. Big Tony's visit to the dealership last Saturday wasn't a social call, Patty. It was a threat. We're in real trouble here."

"He's never coming back," Patty fired back again. "You're overreacting."

"Overreacting! The bastards set fire to my parents' house, Patty, and they tried to do the same thing to Chita."

"They did what?"

Unable to contain his resentment, Carmen said, "You know Patty, you've got a lot of damned nerve coming in here in your rich car and sitting there in your rich clothes.... What's it gonna take to get through to you? This isn't about who is going to run the dealership. This is about staying alive. Does someone have to die before you'll understand that? They already tried with you once." He paused to see if he'd gotten through to her, and added, "I am not overreacting on this."

Patty was as still as a statue. "They burned your parents' house?" was all she could say. Then it hit her, a delayed reaction. "What do you mean, they already tried with me once?"

Carmen glanced at Chita. It was unbelievable. She didn't know.

"Remember last Tuesday night when Chita and I came to your place? Do you know what happened outside your apartment that night as we were leaving?"

"I'm not sure what you're talking about. I remember saying goodbye, and you guys went one way and I went the other. I went for a long walk after that, you know, trying to clear my head. I found myself in the East Village and I stopped to get some coffee, then I walked part of the way back before I realized what time it was, and I grabbed a cab."

"So how long were you gone?"

"I don't know, a couple of hours at least, maybe longer. Why? What are you getting at?"

Everyone looked at each other. "Does the name Lawanda Hoopes mean anything to you?" Rita asked.

"That's Tommy Lee's girlfriend," Patty replied. She stared blankly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Lawanda Hoopes was also known as the Black Widow. She was a hit woman, Patty. She had a sheet as long as my arm, and a reputation to match."

"Had?"

"She's dead, blown away outside your apartment, along with Tommy Lee. They were there to do a hit—on you."

"And Big Tony was with them," Carmen added.

Patty took a moment. "What stopped them?" she asked nervously.

Morena answered, "We think it was the Mafia." Mafia hung in the air for a second. "We think Tommy Lee stepped on some big toes inside the mob and they caught up to him that night outside your building. Forensics came up with a couple of partial fingerprints on a shell casing that might belong to an old-time hood named Johnny Legs Capitanio. Johnny Legs is Michael DeLuna's right hand man."

"Who's Michael DeLuna?" Patty asked, her eyes glassy now.

"Right now, Michael DeLuna is the man inside the mob." Morena let it rest a second. "Big Tony, the Mafia, the dealership... it's all connected, and they want it back."

Patty looked at the ceiling and spoke into space. "They're never going to take over that dealership. Not them, not my mother, not anyone... not in a million years."

"We want you to let them," Rita responded. "Temporarily."

* * * * *

Over sandwiches that no one seemed interested in, Morena asked, "Are all of you up for this?"

Carmen looked at the others around the table, figuring each of them was focused on their own agenda. Patty: no doubt she was thinking about the dealership, or her mother, he figured, probably both. As if on cue, "Absolutely," she said to Morena. She wanted it badly.

Rita? She had to be thinking about Henry, Carmen guessed. She wasn't good at hiding her emotions when it came to Henry, and she'd revealed during her stay with him that she was still thinking about how to make the relationship work. That, and she wanted nail the scumbags responsible for Henry's nephew's death in the worst way.

"Count me in," Rita said as everyone's eyes shifted to her.

Chita responded by saying, "We have to do what's right. It's what God teaches us."

Carmen thought about Billy Gatton, and about the scabs on Delmo's knuckles. He thought about Chita, and how he wanted her to respect him. He not only wanted her respect, but his own, to prove to himself that he was more than another faceless nobody who'd live and die within a ten-mile radius of where he was born and be forgotten before the dirt covered his coffin, if he could ever afford the coffin. He had to amount to more than that, otherwise what was the use of going on from day to day? "I'm in," he said, answering Morena.

"We have a plan on how to do this," Morena went on, "but we'll listen if you have anything you'd like to add to it."

"Whatever we do," said Carmen, "we need to set them up through someone they'd never suspect."

"You got someone in mind?" Rita questioned.

"Tanisha."

"Who's that?" Morena asked.

"She's the receptionist at the dealership," Rita answered.

"How would she fit into all this?"

"Here's how we do it," said Carmen. He turned to Patty. "How do you feel about taking a little vacation?"

Chapter 71... Chicken Salad

Shannon Fairchild tapped the end of an ultra-slim cigarette against the back of a solid gold case. The case only held five cigarettes, which was just as well since she didn't smoke much, just one here and one there, only a couple of elegant puffs, except when she got nervous. This time, she took a long drag. Where the hell was Paul? She hated sitting alone, especially in a place like Elaine's where no one sat alone. She downed a third of her stiff Manhattan cocktail, crushed her smoke, and snapped open a gold compact right at the table. Normally, she wouldn't have performed such a common act, but she wanted to check her worry lines. That's when she noticed Paul off behind her, hovering near a pack of high-end trophy ex's. She should have known. She took another sip and sat there impatiently. Finally, he found his way to her.

"Well?" she snapped.

Barrons didn't get a chance to answer as a waiter thankfully came to the table, giving Shannon a chance to cool off. He ordered an endive salad with prosciutto, with a side order of double scotch on the rocks. He was about to say something when a handsome stranger wearing a five-hundred-dollar suit approached from the other side. The stranger didn't even look at Paul.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Fairchild," the suit said smugly. "I usually don't usually approach people in public like this, but I've been trying to reach you for a couple of months." He pushed an engraved business card across the table. "Call me," he said. "I can help."

Shannon looked at the card: R. Scott Jefferson, Investments and Portfolios. She held it between two long fingers, flipping it back onto the table like so much trash. "Fuck off," she said, and the suit crawled into the woodwork.

Barrons raised a graying eyebrow. "I'm guessing you don't know who that is."

"Should I?" she asked, like she gave a rat's ass.

"R. Scott Jefferson is the premiere independent investment counselor in the city. He's been known to make chicken salad out of chicken shit."

"So?"

"So, you could use a miracle worker right now. Obviously, the word is out."

Shannon raised her chin defiantly. "I don't want to talk about that right now, Paul. Just tell me where we stand with the offers."

Barrons sipped his whiskey. "So far," he said, taking a leather booklet from his vest pocket, "the three interested parties haven't moved much from their original positions. The Taubmaier group is still interested, but they have doubts about being able to attract national retailers to that part of the city. Also, parking would be a problem. There simply isn't enough land underneath the dealership unless we acquire surrounding properties—which we both know we can't do right now." He glanced to where the suit had crawled, and said, "Right, Shannon?"

She speared him with a stare. "Just give me the report, Paul."

He went on, shedding her attitude like water off wax. "The people from World Enterprises haven't responded to our calls. Either they don't have the money, or they're scared. There's a glut of office space in Manhattan right now, at bargain basement prices to boot, and they're probably asking themselves why anyone would travel to Jamaica Queens if Manhattan were affordable. I don't think that prospect is going anywhere either."

Shannon crossed a long leg, showing a yard of silken shin. "What about the realty company?"

"I think we can count them out as well. Luxury condominiums and Jamaica don't mix well. The complex on Hillside Avenue proved that. Anything past Kew Gardens is considered outer Mongolia."

She stirred her drink slowly. "I don't want to go broke," she said, her voice suddenly quivering.

Barrons looked up, reacting to her unexpected display of emotion. He speared a mushroom and bought himself a moment. "There is another way."

Shannon took a moment to settle herself. "I'm listening," she said.

"Perhaps we need to stop trying to reshape the landscape."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"We keep going after glamour projects like office high rises, condos, etcetera, etcetera. No one in their right mind would take a chance like that in Jamaica, and cultivating interest for a shopping mall could take years. Too many retailers have pulled out of that part of town, and the nail in the coffin was when the Gertz department store closed down. Unless the neighborhood turns around overnight, it's gonna be tough."

"What do you suggest?"

Barrons speared another mushroom and waved it dramatically. "Manufacturing."

Shannon didn't move for some time. "Manufacturing," she repeated.

"Absolutely. Just look at the area; close to major transportation arteries, minutes to two major airports, cheap labor base, access to public transportation for workers, and I'm sure something could be arranged as far as a tax incentive is concerned. We just have to push the right buttons. It could be worth millions to the city in tax revenues."

"I'm not interested in the city."

"This would move a lot faster if we talked to the right people and did a little back scratching."

Back scratching: she knew exactly what that meant. That back scratcher was colored green. "And I suppose you know the right people."

"Absolutely. I have an appointment with the Borough President this afternoon."

"Macfarlane himself?" She actually seemed impressed.

"Macfarlane himself," said Barrons, leaning back in his chair, self-satisfied.

Shannon got up and straightened her impressive form, attracting glances. Barrons got up with her, despite the fact that he wasn't done with his salad. He wasn't about to sit alone in Elaine's.

Almost as an afterthought, Shannon snatched the business card off the table. "Chicken salad out of chicken shit," she repeated to herself, and she slipped the card into her Gucci. Maybe fuck off had been a little harsh.

Barrons sipped the last of his scotch. "You know," he said, "it's a shame we can't wait for the dealership to come around. From what the accountants say, Patty seems to be doing a splendid job with the place. Profits are coming along nicely."

"It's too little too late, Paul. It's like you said: we need chicken salad."

Shannon marched through the dining room, and Barrons dropped a couple of twenties on the table for the two drinks and the salad and a generous tip. It was New York, after all, and appearances mattered.

Chapter 72... On Deck

"Are we ready?" Rita asked.

"I think we are," Morena answered.

"I don't like this one damned bit," said Patty.

"Do you have a better idea?" Carmen asked.

"No, I don't," Patty replied.

"When is all this going to happen?" Chita asked.

"Day after tomorrow," Carmen answered.

"Do you think she'll swallow it?" Rita asked.

"I hear she already does," Carmen quipped.

Everyone groaned.

Chapter 73... A Star Is Born

Carmen rehearsed his lines as if he was opening on Broadway. On Monday, the rumor about Patty going on a long vacation had been easy to start, as was the one on Tuesday about her possibly not coming back. It sounded plausible enough.

"A spoiled rich bitch, is what she is," Carmen had said. "This fuckin' dealership was nothing but a plaything for her. I knew she couldn't take it for long." Big man, he was. He revived his showroom strut for the performance, putting a little extra bounce in his step. The rumor was like a flash fire among the salesmen—it was all salesmen again—then it spread to the shop where the service mechanics rejoiced that things were finally going to be like the old days. After that, it spread further back to get-ready; and finally to the F & I department where the desk jockeys gossiped around the coffee pot.

Chita called Carmen not forty minutes into the scheme with the scuttlebutt he'd started: Patty was gone and wasn't coming back for a long time. "Nice job," she'd said. "I heard she was in California being a beach bunny with some rich surfer boys. She has her own beach house too. Nice touch."

"I thought so," Carmen said proudly, having said nothing of the sort, but it fit, so what the hell. Then, he stole a cup of coffee and reinforced the rumor, and proceeded to the tower where he put his feet up and acted like the man for the rest of the afternoon.

Now, it was Wednesday morning and it was time to spring part two. "How do I look?" he asked, pulling out a comb.

"You're not quite there," said Chita. It was time for her to take charge. "You got any more stuff for your hair?"

Carmen handed her a bottle of Vitalis that he'd bought especially for the occasion, and she globbed it onto his head. Glug, glug, glug went the bottle.

"Hold still," she commanded. A few drags of the comb later, she stepped back. "There," she said proudly.

He bobbed around in front of a picture frame on Chita's desk, looking at his reflection. "Got enough on there?" he asked as his hair glinted in the light.

"Hey, you wanted slick, you got slick. Now, let's complete le ensemble." She undid his tie and the first three buttons of his shirt, making sure his collar was spread nice and wide. "Hhmmm... it needs something else." She unbuttoned the first two buttons of her own shirt, taking a gold cross from around her neck putting it around his. It stood out prominently under his Adam's apple, nestled in a soft bed of chest hair.

"Perfect," she said. "You don't have an earring, do you?"

"I don't do earrings. What time is it?"

"Almost 9:30. What time is she due in?"

"Right about now."

They went through the F & I office, ignoring the sharp glances from the pencil pushers.

"There she is," said Chita.

They watched as Tanisha did her usual morning walk and distributed the vouchers for the previous day's deals. As usual, the salesmen ogled and passed lewd comments as she walked by. Didn't bother her a bit.

"My, but the bouncers are active today," Chita noted, a crooked little sneer cocked on her face.

She was referring, of course, to Tanisha's swaying cha-chas, grandly displayed for all to admire. Tanisha had the walk down pat, and they jiggled like balloons full of raspberry Jell-O. That, or, more appropriately, those, of course, were why she'd been hired in the first place.

Carmen said, "How do you know we call 'em bouncers?"

"Oh, gee, like maybe it's because that's all you perverts talk about." Chita stepped back and gave him a once over. "Are you ready?"

"I think so."

She turned him around and gave him a shove. "Okay then. Go get 'em, Casanova."

To the observers in the F & I office who thought the twosome might have been getting it on lately, it looked as if she was giving him his walking papers. It was perfect. She watched as Carmen rolled into his showroom strut: left leg dragging slightly slower than the right, tiny little dip in the right knee. He walked right past Tanisha, ignoring her like she had a disease.

What the hell is he doing! Chita thought to herself. He's supposed to hit on her. He's not hitting! He's.... He's.... What the hell is he doing?

Carmen made his way past Tanisha's desk again, making sure that she noticed him this time. Hell, Helen Keller would have noticed him, thought Chita. He paused at the base of the tower to adjust himself, then climbed the six steps and perched on the edge of the big mahogany desk. Flipping open his driving shades, he looked straight at Tanisha. He punched a button on his phone. Hers rang.

"Hey babe," he drawled. "Bring me some coffee would'jya. And get one for yourself. I'd like to talk to ya. I got a opportunity you might be interested in."

It wasn't two minutes later that Tanisha was sloshing coffee across the showroom floor. She wiggled up the six steps and sat; Carmen got up and moseyed on over. He picked up his coffee, and they actually touched cups when he held his up for a toast.

God, thought Chita as she took a seat at one of the empty desks on salesmen's row, what... a bimbo. It was like they were getting ready to have sex up there. And Carmen was really disgusting, she observed proudly as she played pretend by shuffling some papers back and forth. She was to Tanisha's back, but Carmen could see her clearly and he shot her a little wink.

"So... babe," he said to Tanisha. "I been watching you."

"All the guys watch me," said Tanisha, straightening her back for added emphasis like she'd been doing it all her life.

Carmen sipped his coffee. "You got capabilities."

Tanisha's big brown eyes opened wide and followed Carmen's eyes as they traveled down to her big brown capabilities. "I ain't never heard 'em called that before, Mister Madrid." A little giggle.

"Hey, none of that Mister Madrid stuff for you, babe. Call me Kid—Kid Madrid. Leave that mister stuff for those maggots." He motioned over to salesmen's row. "Like I said, I been watching you a long time, and I think a girl like you is wasting her time hangin' out at this dead-end dealership."

"Then why are you here?"

Good question. That was probably as astute as she could get, thought Chita as she continued to eavesdrop.

"Me?" said Carmen. "I got other stuff goin' on. I'm making more on the side than I am being the sales manager at this dump."

"You do the same kind of side work as Billy and Delmo do?"

Hearing that, Chita speculated that if this airhead knew about that, who didn't? It probably hadn't been that hard for Rita to figure it out, had it?

"That stuff's not my style," Carmen replied. "I'm more into, you know... talent."

"Talent?"

"Yeah, talent, ability, aptitude ... and you got some serious aptitude, baby." Carmen put his driving shades back on. He was just too cool.

"Why thank you Mister Madrid... I mean Carmen... I mean Kid. What kind of aptitude is you talkin' about?"

A slight pause for effect. "Acting."

"You mean like... in the movies?"

"I mean exactly like in the movies."

"Go on. For real?"

"Absolutely."

"What movies? You some kind of agent or something?"

"Well, sort of. I'm kind of a producer, and I'm always on the lookout for new performers, if you know what I mean." Carmen took off the shades and executed his most lascivious smirk.

"Mister Madrid, I swear you drivin' at somethin'. What you drivin' at, Mister Madrid?" She flashed a coy little smile in return. "Tee-hee."

He walked to the other side of the desk. There, buried under a pile of papers, was a videocassette of Hollow Throat, the same video everyone was watching in the parts lounge that Friday night back in July. Big Tony had stuffed it into a drawer and it had been there ever since. Carmen tossed it down in front of Tanisha. "I saw how you were when we showed that movie in the back. You like it when guys watch you, don'chu babe?"

A shy little shrug. "Yeeaaah."

"Holly thinks you'd be good."

A little glance into his eyes. "You and Holly is tight?"

"I'm the one who discovered her and set her up with Sonny."

"Go on. How'd you do that, Mister Producer Man?"

"Same way I'm discovering you right now. How about it? I know you got the look, and I hear you got the talent."

She took it in stride, the mark of a girl who was used to insinuations. "Is that so?" she asked, making no attempt at denying it.

Carmen got up and did a three-step strut to the other side of the desk. He got close, real close, in her space. He put his lips to her ear. "I can line up an audition for you," he whispered coarsely. His hand moved toward his crotch when he said the word audition. "By the way, the money ain't bad either."

Tanisha took a sip of coffee. "How much?" she asked, licking the edge of the cup. Her tongue lingered.

"Depends on how good you are," Carmen replied.

"I'm the best," she proclaimed.

Huh. She'd probably had enough practice, thought Chita as she strained to hear the conversation. They were talking in hushed tones now, or at least Carmen was. That tramp Tanisha was almost doing an acceptance speech.

"You want me to show you sometime? I wouldn't mind, you know. I always thought you was kinda cute."

"I don't mix business with pleasure, baby—although I am tempted," said Carmen.

Huh. Probably not much doubt about that either, thought Chita.

"What do I gotta do?" Tanisha asked.

Carmen looked down at the cassette with the creamy white letters. "Exactly what you think you gotta do. But hey, no harm if you don't want to," he added, not being too pushy. "It's like I said, it's just an opportunity. It's all up to you, but I'm tellin' you babe, you could be a star."

He backed off a step. Tanisha was thinking about it, all right, as hard as a girl like her could think. Giving her a little more to put her over the edge, Carmen walked back to the other side of the desk and sat in the big leather chair. Pushing a button on the phone like he knew what he was doing, he dialed the outside number to the dealership and a light on his phone lit up as the call routed itself back in. When the automatic prompts came on, he punched in the extension number to the desk where Chita was sitting. "This is Carmen," he said, looking up and flashing a toothy smile at Tanisha.

"I know," said Chita. "What are you doing up there?"

He leaned back and put his feet on the desk. "I got somebody here you might wanna talk to."

"Boy, you're really full of it, aren't you?"

"Yeah, thanks. You got any new gigs comin' up?"

"What are you going to do? Like, give her a fire hydrant to practice on?"

"Yeah, that might work... Next week?... Don't know, lemme check." He held the phone to his chest. "Hey babe, are you available next week? They might wanna line up that audition I talked about. They're setting up a new production called Battle of the Big Gulps."

Tanisha almost jumped out of her chair. "Next week is fine," she squealed.

"Next week is good. Yeah, I know nothing is definite, but see what you can do, okay? The kid's a winner I'm tellin' ya. She'd be a natural in front of the camera."

"I'll bet. A natural skank is what she'd be."

"Yeah, well, I'll be in touch."

"Right, but try not to touch yourself in front of her again. And Carmen...?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't get so carried away that you forget to plant the seed. Okay?"

"Yeah, don't worry about that. I'll take care of it."

"I just wanted you to know that was the most disgusting display I've ever seen. Nice job."

"Thanks. There's a lot more where that came from." He hung up the phone. "Sonny thinks maybe you'd be good in front of the camera. By the way, you ever talk to Billy or Delmo?"

"Once in a while. Why?"

"I was just wonderin' how they was doin', that's all. Now that the skinny bitch woman is gone, I might wanna get things back to the way they used to be around here, and things just ain't the same without Billy and Delmo. I been thinkin' about callin' Big Tony too. We might have some other opportunities on the horizon, you know what I'm sayin'? Anyway, you best be thinkin' of gettin' yourself a movie name."

A movie name; Tanisha got lost in thought for a couple of seconds, but it wasn't a very long trip. "How about Tana? Get it? See my skin? Tan, get it—Tana? How about Tana Assa, instead of Tan-isha?" She was squealing, she was so excited.

"Yeah," said Carmen, nodding in disbelief. "I get it." What a fucking ditz. "Listen babe, here's Sonny's number. He said he might have something for you."

Chapter 74... Enzio's

"You dumb fuck! Like, when the fuck were you planning on sayin' something?"

Billy looked around the restaurant to see if anyone had heard Big Tony's thunder. The lunch crowd was just filtering in and luckily it wasn't that crowded. "Take it easy, for Christ's sake. I just found out myself, and I'm still not a hundred percent sure about it."

Big Tony broke open a hard roll and spread a shovel full of butter on it. Half of it went into his mouth with one push. "Tell me again how you found out."

"Okay, I was standin' out by the edge of the lot, you know, just havin' a smoke, when I see her come outta the showroom. I thought the bitch had quit, so I thought she must've been there collectin' her pay or something. You know, it was close to commission time."

Big Tony tucked a napkin the size of a picnic blanket into his collar. "You sure you don't want nothin'? This place has got the best baked ziti in Flushing."

"No thanks." Billy looked down at Big Tony's plate. "You gonna eat all that... for lunch?"

"Just tell me what the fuck happened." Big Tony made a well into the baked ziti and let some steam escape. It could have been Old Faithful.

Billy took a smoke from his pack. "So I see the red-haired bitch go over to a brown Crown Vic parked in front of the park."

"The park down the street?" Half a bowl of salad disappeared.

"No, fucking Central Park," Billy shot sarcastically.

Big Tony jabbed at the cigarette pack with his fork. "Not while I'm eatin'."

Billy put the cigarette on the table. He could wait. With Big Tony, it was more like inhaling than eating. "So I see her go over, and she opens the door and bends that nice ass of hers into the car to get something, I guess, then she hauls it back into the showroom."

"What did she get?"

"I have no idea. I wasn't paying much attention. Like I said, the only reason I was watchin' her is because of that ass of hers."

A string of hot cheese stretched off Big Tony's fork. A little blow, then, whooop, what would have been an entire lunch for a child disappeared. "Damn! Hot... hot, hot!" He sucked down half a glass of red wine. "So what makes you think it was a cop car?"

"C'mon, will ya? I been around fuckin' cars all my life and I'm tellin' you this was a fuckin' cop car: brown Crown Vic, plain paint job, outside spotlight—no doubt about it."

"So where did she go from there?"

"Don't know. I went out on a test drive for a while and didn't give it no mind. But on my way back with the maggot, I noticed the Crown Vic still parked there, in a no-parking zone yet, right in front of the historical marker. That's when I got real curious."

"You're a real fuckin' rocket scientist."

"Kiss my ass.

"You wish. Then what?"

"So then I'm checking out this trade that came in, a nice red and white Torino, you know, just like the car on that old cop show, Starsky and Hutch. You remember that show?"

"Never mind about the show. Just tell me what the fuck happened." Another kid's lunch disappeared and some red sauce dripped down Big Tony's chin.

"So I'm inside the car and I got the exhausts barkin', and I see the five of 'em come outta the showroom together. There's the redhead, Patty, that cocksucker Madrid, and that little Chita bitch from F & I that I'll bet he's puttin' the stones to—which I wouldn't mind puttin' the stones to her myself."

"That's only four."

"The fifth one was this dark spic cop with a moustache like fucking Harry Reems."

"How do you know he was a cop?"

"He dressed like a cop, he walked like a cop, and he smelled like a cop. I could smell him all the way downwind. I'm tellin' ya, between him and the car, there ain't no doubt about it. The three of 'em got the cops involved in something, and I don't think that redhead working there was any moonlighting job."

Contemplating, Big Tony shoved his empty plate toward the center of the table. "How long did the bitch work there?"

"A couple of months, I guess."

"Shit. We must've made eight or ten runs in a couple 'a months, and there's no tellin' what she mighta found out about Holtzman."

"I know," said Billy, finally lighting the smoke. "That's why I figured we oughtta talk."

"Good thinkin'."

Finally, a little fucking praise.

"When did all this happen, what you're talkin' about?"

"I don't know. Musta been a couple 'a weeks ago."

"And you're just now sayin' somethin'? What the fuck?"

"Hey, don't be a prick, huh? Don't forget the bitch was hired on your watch." Billy knew he'd made his point. "If it wasn't for me, you could be feedin' an awful lot of fish, Big Tony. You oughtta be fuckin' grateful I'm comin' to you with this, especially after that thing with Tommy Lee. I heard the boss was pretty pissed about that."

"Fuckin' Tommy Lee; that stupid sonofabitch had to go and get greedy."

"Hey, greedy is one thing. It was that fuckin' calf's head that did it."

"We gotta do something."

"No shit. What you got in mind?"

"I don't know. Is Delmo around?"

"I ain't talked to him in about a week."

"Find him. You got his number?"

"Not on me. I can call the dealership and get it. When do you want it?"

"Now, asshole. You want some dessert or somethin'?"

Chapter 75... All In The Past

Billy woke up early. For a while, this unemployment thing was pretty good: get up around ten, maybe eleven depending on the size of the hangover from the night before, do some brunch, drink a few beers, maybe go over to Sonny's and try to get his tubes cleaned by that vacuum cleaner girlfriend of his. He hadn't had scored with her yet, but he was getting close. All he needed was some vodka and one or two more afternoons with her—if Sonny went out and did some business, that is. Then again, it could happen with Sonny sitting across the room. Like Sonny cared about the hosebag. She'd sucked down maybe a hundred dicks just in the movies; who knows how many freebies she'd done? Billy stared at the brown water rings on the ceiling, clinging to the visual of Holly Hollow bobbing up and down on his winkle. He was no Sonny Olanzo when it came to size, but he bet it would feel good just the same. Then, he thought as he fondled himself, bet what? There was nothing left to bet. He wondered if Sonny had scored any jobs for him. There hadn't been any in the last ten days, and things were getting thin.

Billy rolled off his creaky mattress and poured a line from the baggie sitting atop the cinderblock that served as his nightstand. There was just enough left to give him a decent buzz, and he poured it onto the little pink plastic mirror that always seemed to be around. Might as well start the day with a bang. He snorted half the line, then traded nostrils and dabbed at the inside of his nose, checking for blood. It was getting thin in there too these days. He lit a smoke and waited. It was good shit, and the rush would get there in a second like a freight train blasting through an intersection. Too bad he'd just snorted the last of it. He wondered if Sonny could score more for him, but even if he could, he, Billy, didn't have the cash. He hated to admit it, but he missed that fucking dealership. It was an easy two or three grand a month, and it paid the rent. It was the cake while the side jobs were the frosting, but a guy couldn't live on just frosting.

He coughed out a lungful of smoke and covered himself with a dirty blanket. The freight train came, and the tiny capillaries in his eyes almost burst. Yes sir; good shit. He got up to grab a shower, and the phone rang. He glanced at the plastic alarm clock on the cinderblock: 9:10 a.m. Maybe it was Sonny with a run.

"Yeah," he coughed into the phone.

"Billy. This is Carmen—Madrid."

It took a second. "Madrid? What the fuck do you want?"

"Hey man, is that any way to treat an old dealership buddy?"

Dealership buddy? The fucking twerp. "Don't play that tune with me, Madrid. The buddyship ended when you took sides with that skinny, blonde, Barbie doll maggot who shits money. Just tell me what the fuck you want so I don't I hang up this fuckin' phone in your fuckin' ear." Billy lit another smoke and edged that much closer to cancer.

"We don't have the Monte Carlo back."

Monte Carlo? Billy asked himself. What fuckin'.... Oh, that Monte Carlo, the one he'd stolen off the lot. "File a fuckin' insurance claim," he snapped.

"We would if you were an employee."

"Yeah, well I ain't, so I guess you're just gonna have to go find it, Mister Sales Manager."

"Right. You and I both know we're never going find that car."

"So what are you sayin'? You gonna send the fuckin' cops to get me? Go ahead. What you think they're gonna do? They ain't gonna do shit, that's what."

"Like I said, we wouldn't have to do anything if you were an employee again. It would be like you said: just file an insurance claim."

Billy took a long pause. "What the fuck you drivin' at?"

"The blonde bitch is gone Billy, and I'm in charge now, lock, stock, and barrel."

"Is that so? Where'd she go?"

"She's off fucking surfer boys in L.A., and we'll never see her skinny ass again. I wanna get things back to the way they used to be." Carmen changed his syntax to suit the conversation. "That's when we was makin' real money, right Billy? Not this penny ante shit we're makin' now by just sellin' cars."

The asshole. Billy hawked a morning phlegm wad into the kitchen sink, which was in the same room as his bed. "You really expect me to swallow that crap? You took sides, Madrid, and now you're gonna have to fuckin' live with it."

Some seconds passed. "I only did that because I thought I could make some fuckin' money, that it was the way to go. You remember how I borrowed some cash off you those couple 'a times, don'tcha Billy? What would you 'a done if you were me?"

"I wouldn't 'a taken sides with that skinny bitch; that's for sure. You had plenty 'a opportunity to make some fuckin' money if you wanted to. You just fuckin' blew it, asshole."

"Hey Billy, we all make mistakes. Maybe it was a mistake for you to take sides with Big Tony, you know what I'm sayin'?" Then, boldly, "Are you makin' any fuckin' money now?"

Hesitantly, "No."

"See? Ain't nothin' permanent in this life. Why can't we just let bygones be bygones, man?"

The kid had a point, the fuck. There wasn't a fuckin' dime comin' in, dry as a fuckin' bone, in more ways than one. Still, he wasn't that fuckin' dumb, Billy thought as he squeezed his dick through his shorts. The redheaded bitch and the spic cop hadn't been there lookin' for purse snatchers. "You know Madrid, you must think I'm one stupid motherfucker. You think you can drop a phone call on me and I'll come crawlin' back like some fuckin' wounded dog? There's plenty of other dealerships in Queens that's lookin' for guys who can roll maggots and sell some fuckin' cars."

"C'mon Billy, you can't make the kind of money you can make here."

"The commission rate is about the same everywhere, Madrid."

"That's not what I mean."

"I gotta go take a piss."

"Wait a minute, Billy. I need you back, man. I need the money."

Billy paused. The kid sounded desperate. "Then sell some fuckin' cars!"

"I need more than that—a whole lot more."

The kid's voice was getting tighter. "Why?" Billy asked, waiting to see what the kid had to say next.

"Someone tried to burn my parents' house down, man, and they ain't got no place to stay. I gotta get some money, and I gotta get it fast. What d'ya say, Billy?"

"Well ain't that just so fuckin' sweet?"

"Hey, fuck you asshole. I thought maybe we could get back together, like it was before. But hey, you don't want it, ain't no skin off my ass. We got all kinds of Big Tony's old friends showin' up here lookin' for transportation. You don't want a piece of the action, I'll just set it up on my own now that the dealership is in the clear."

Billy froze for a second. "What d'ya mean, in the clear?"

"You know Billy, you're right. Sometimes you're one dumbass motherfucker. Like you didn't know Patty called in some undercover cops to stake out the dealership, right? Shit. Even I knew that."

"You mean the red-haired bitch."

"Who the fuck do you think I mean? That fuckin' Patty was out to get us all, man. I just happened to get on the right side of things and not get my ass in a tangle like you guys did."

Hmm, thought Billy. Why would the kid be telling him that if there weren't something to the call? "So what makes things so different now?"

"'Cause they ain't got nothin' on us, man! That, and they ain't gonna bother now that the dealership's for sale."

Ding-dong. "For sale?"

"Yeah, the dealership's up for sale, man. The Queen Mother put the thing on the block, and Patty's hit the fuckin' highway. Ain't no reason for her to fuckin' stick around if they're gonna unload the place. In the meantime, we got all kinds of Big Tony's and Sonny's old friends showin' up here lookin' for Sunday drivers and lookin' to make deals."

"Deals?"

"Deals. We had maybe twenty cars go outta here just this week. These dumb bastards we got workin' here now is makin' all kinds 'a money, and the dumb asses don't know a stick shift from a shock absorber. All cash. It's easy work, Billy. You and Delmo could do twenty, twenty-five cars a month, easy."

"Delmo back?"

"He'd come back if you did, and if you two did, so would Big Tony."

Billy tossed his smoke in the toilet. Only half of him wanted to tell the kid to go fuck himself. "So why would you want Big Tony back if you're the man now? It don't make no fuckin' sense."

"Money, Billy. Just that fuckin' simple. I do twenty, maybe twenty-five cars a month and do a few side jobs, and I'm in the gravy. But we need Big Tony to make the deals—both kinds. I can do it either way, but I still think it would be better with Big Tony back on board. People like to do business with someone they know.... You know what I mean?"

Billy chewed on the thought, and said, "Right. I'll get back to ya in a few days." He hung up the phone. He lit another smoke and enjoyed the freight train rumbling through his head, brushing back the stained sheet that served as a window curtain. That asshole. He thinks he's so fuckin' smart. The cars along Rockaway Boulevard looked a little fuzzy as they whipped by.

Back at the dealership, inside the glass-walled F & I office, Carmen said, "I think he bit on it—the asshole." The story was all lies, of course.

Chita made a check mark on a yellow legal pad. "This is never going to work," she said nervously.

"Sure it will," said Carmen.

Chapter 76... A Letter of Intent

Traveling east from LaGuardia Airport along the Grand Central Parkway, the three executives smiled politely as they watched the scenery change. One of them clicked a button on his wristwatch, timing the drive to their destination.

Paul Barrons dropped the door on the limo's built-in beverage compartment. "Perrier?" he asked. They all took one. He took a nip bottle of something harder for himself, thinking Perrier was probably a big deal to these corncobs. "Are you staying in Manhattan?" he asked, making small talk.

"At the Berkshire on 52nd Street," the senior of the three responded, sounding like he was familiar with the city.

"Ah," said Barrons. "My office is just a few blocks away on Lexington. If you like, I could tell you where to find some entertainment while you're in town." They all knew what that meant. Barrons actually waited for a gu-hhyuck, girls! to come from the youngest of the three.

The limo blasted along past the ragweed that grew in abundance along the shoulders. At the point where the Grand Central continued toward Long Island, it met with the crossing Van Wyck Expressway. The executive with the stopwatch clicked on the little button again. "Fourteen minutes," he announced dutifully.

"And it's only maybe another fourteen to Kennedy Airport," Barrons added. That was a positive for the timekeeper. The limo eased onto Hillside Avenue, and Barrons kept an eye the two senior men as they examined the surroundings. He noticed a smile on one of the faces.

"Perfect," said the one they respectfully called Mister Kenyon. He pointed to the subway stop at the corner of Hillside Avenue and Parsons Boulevard, around which a couple of panhandlers hit on people coming up the stairway. "Does the F train go all the way through Queens?" he asked.

"All the way into Manhattan and back into Brooklyn," Barrons answered. The smile curled even more, with a nod. That was good, Barrons guessed as he looked for any clue as to how it was going. The faces would tell all.

And speaking of faces, the limo got its share of looks from the ones it passed on the street. Barrons didn't look back. He already knew what the lookers looked like, and they all looked alike. The awe shucks one slouched uncomfortably back into his seat despite the dark tinted windows, touching the lock button as if to reassure himself he was safe. The white-haired one in the middle, the one with the stopwatch, copied Mister Kenyon's smile.

"What'dya think, Al?" Kenyon asked, nodding approvingly. "Available public transportation, large labor base, fifteen or twenty minutes from two metro airports, right on major traffic arteries—so far it's got a lot going for it. The neighborhood has some rough spots, but I think we can play that to our favor as well."

"So do I," said the white-haired one. "There's got to be some good working people stashed in behind these streets." His eyes then focused sharply on Barrons, who took the hint.

"Absolutely," he chimed. "There are plenty of good honest folks out there begging for a chance to make a decent living. There aren't a lot of new opportunities for them anymore, not in this area at least." Barrons wondered if he'd said the right thing.

"Means we'll probably have a loyal work force," Mister Kenyon surmised. "People will stick with an opportunity to make an honest living. What's the wage base?"

He'd said the right thing. "Probably five to seven dollars an hour," Barrons replied, having no idea and hoping that wasn't too much for the other two hayseeds, who were listening intently.

"Hell," the white-haired one declared, "we pay that much in Des Moines." They all nodded approvingly, all at once, like three little springy-headed dolls. The limo hung a hard right onto Jamaica Avenue and eased through a throng of pimp-rolling black kids who made rap moves at the car. The white-haired one continued. "What's the acreage?"

Barrons checked his fact sheet. "One-point-eight." He looked up. "Is that enough?"

"Plenty," said Mister Kenyon. "We'll build up if we need to. Zoned industrial, I'm sure."

"Absolutely," Barrons said, again having no idea. He'd have to take care of that if it wasn't. "There it is," he indicated, pointing to the huge, red Fairchild MotorCars sign a block up on Jamaica Avenue.

The white-haired one said, "Looks adequate from here." The young one stared at a high-heeled hooker trolling for crack money in front of The Pizza Palace, black satin hot pants hugging her cold ass. It was only maybe fifty degrees outside.

"I only have one question," said Barrons. "Why Queens? I mean, it's a rather unusual spot to put up a cereal factory, isn't it?" They pulled up and stopped right in front of the fence that bordered the lot.

Mister Kenyon looked at the rolling strands of barbed wire on top of the fence, and answered like the cereal authority that he was. "We've found it's cheaper to ship the raw materials—the grains, the sugar, the packaging materials—to our plants and assemble the products there than it is to manufacture centrally and ship finished products all over the country. We're decentralizing our operations, Mister Barrons, putting up smaller regional plants. Makes it easier to invade hidden corners of the market, and makes us faster on our feet."

Barrons nodded as if he was actually interested. "Makes sense, Mister Kenyon. Makes damned good sense, and a location like this is perfect. You're within a six-hour drive to a third of the population of the entire United States. That's one helluva lot of Fruit Lumps."

"Sure is," Mister Kenyon agreed boastfully, puffing his chest. "Makes perfectly good business sense, don't it boys?"

"Yes sir, Mister Kenyon, sir," the white-haired one clacked.

The young one didn't answer. He was busy checking out a group of young Hispanic chicks in front of the Flashy Girl boutique.

Mister Kenyon gave him a tap. "You think you can adapt to living in a big city like New York, Hank?"

One of the Hispanic chicks ambled off down Jamaica Avenue, nipples to the wind. "Absolutely," said Hank, his eyes glued to her young ass.

"It'll be a lot of work, but it'll be well worth it." Mister Kenyon slapped Hank on the thigh and pointed to the beverage compartment with a meaty Midwestern finger. "How about one 'a them little J & Bs to celebrate, Mister Barrons."

Barrons smiled, figuring the kid would work his ass off getting the plant off the ground, and wouldn't be there a year later. New York would chew him up and spit him out like the seeds from a watermelon. Barrons gleefully grabbed three nip bottles and handed them out like candy at Halloween. "Celebrate?" he asked not so tentatively.

"If we can come to an agreement." Mister Kenyon put on his soberest face. It was time to talk turkey, by golly.

Barrons had a sober face of his own. "I'll need a letter of intent," he said, knowing full well that he'd cultivate the offer even if Mister Kenyon pissed in his shoe.

Mister Kenyon snapped his fingers and the white-haired one popped open the burgundy case that had been sitting on his lap since La Guardia. Mister Kenyon extracted a plain white envelope. "Here's your letter of intent."

Barrons took it. It was thick, much thicker than any few sheets of paper could possibly be. "I see," he said, and he did. "I assume from this letter that you want to move along quickly." He didn't open the envelope; he didn't have to.

"The quicker the better. You'll need that letter to get the zoning changed to industrial." A piercing glance let Barrons know he'd been caught in the little white lie.

"Yes, well...." said Barrons. "That'll take a little time to accomplish."

"Make it happen," Mister Kenyon ordered. "Quickly. We're losing half a million a week in sales nationwide since our plant in Jersey burned down. That's a damned lot of Tiger Flakes we're not selling. Did you hear that Mister Barrons? Half a million dollars... a week."

Barrons heard it all right, loud and clear. Even to him that was a big piece of change, but he didn't want to seem too anxious. "Tiger Flakes?" he feigned. "Is that one of your products? I love those." Then, when the chest-puffing was again completed and the history of Tiger Flakes development had been made completely and ultimately crystal clear for him, he popped the question. "What price range are you fellas thinking about? I mean, how much are you budgeting for a piece of property in this area?"

Barrons didn't have to rephrase the question. Mister Kenyon's ball-bearing eyes didn't move a millionth of a millimeter. Instead, he reached out and brushed something off the lapel of Barrons' expensive suit. "We plan on coming in between thirty and forty million, depending on the piece of property itself. Do you think that'll be enough to move the deal along, Mister Barrons?"

Barrons had a little trouble swallowing his drink. "That should be enough to make my people listen," he replied.

"Good," Mister Kenyon proclaimed. "Gotta get these damned Tiger Flakes back on the market ASAP. Right Hank?"

Hank was still busy checking out the scenery along Jamaica Avenue, in particular a pair of legs that belonged to Chita Espino who'd just taken a couple of hours off to help Tanisha buy a little leather something for her upcoming audition with Sonny Olanzo.

Chapter 77... Forgetful People

James Douglas Macfarlane had been borough president for just over two years, and it had taken him a long time to reach that pinnacle of success. He'd tried for the office three previous times, having lost close elections to the incumbent who, in each case, had more campaign money. Money was power, Macfarlane had learned, and power was money. Where one went, the other followed, but it happened much faster when one had the money first. And, Macfarlane found out, one had to be careful with it, unlike the previous borough president who committed suicide after the FBI found those suspicious accounts in the same city, in his own name! The media had had a field day with that, and no one was impervious to such scrutiny. Foreman should have known, the fool. The coincidence of the accounts being discovered at the same time that the secret of his black mistress was revealed had dictated his course of action, and Foreman had followed through thoroughly, blowing a bullet through his skull with a .380 Makarov. The mistress probably would have been okay, thought Macfarlane. Every guy liked a pretty piece of ass now and then, be it black or white, and Foreman may have been able to weather that storm if he hadn't been careless with the green stuff, which left footprints.

"Coffee?" he asked his well-dressed guest.

Michael DeLuna said, "Yes, thank you."

Macfarlane continued the small talk, which was getting larger. "It's unusual for you to personally get involved in a meeting like this, isn't it Mister DeLuna? I expected to see one of Mister Gagliano's representatives."

DeLuna took the coffee and said, "Please, call me Michael. I'm afraid Mister Gagliano has made a recent career change."

"Ah," said Macfarlane, looking into his navy blue City of New York coffee mug. "I understand."

"I'm not sure you do," said DeLuna, crossing his legs fashionably as he leaned back in his chair expectantly. "I'll be dealing with Mister Gagliano's affairs personally until I can find someone to replace him. I hope our working relationship will be just as, ah...."

"No need to go into further detail," Macfarlane said boldly. "I always do my best to ensure that the citizens of this borough get the utmost in respect and cooperation that this office has to offer." A few moments of awkward silence settled during which each man sized the other up. They started in again simultaneously.

"Sorry," said Macfarlane, stumbling over his words, "Is there something else you'd like to talk about?"

"I thought it was your office that arranged this meeting."

Macfarlane looked into DeLuna's eyes for any hint of impatience or distrust. He was well aware of the ultimate subject of any eventual supposed conversation they might have, but he had to be careful how he got there. Foreman had been careless, the idiot, and Macfarlane knew that one couldn't be too careful. DeLuna didn't seem to be in any hurry. They'd get there soon enough.

"Actually, there is something I wanted to talk to Mister Gagliano about."

"I'm listening," said DeLuna.

"Well, like any other large property owner in the borough, I thought you might be interested in some zoning changes that may be coming down in the near future."

DeLuna's intensity was apparent. "I'm always interested in any changes that might affect the marketability of my properties," he said, content to play cat-and-mouse for a while.

"I thought so," Macfarlane concluded. DeLuna waited calmly. "The Department of City Planning has had an official request to rezone several blocks along Jamaica Avenue from a commercial designation to industrial."

"I see."

"Yes," Macfarlane answered even though DeLuna hadn't asked a question. "There's a rather large concern interested in erecting a manufacturing plant between 153rd Street and Parsons Boulevard. It seems that Allied Foods wants to manufacture... cereal, of all things."

"Cereal?"

"Cereal."

"I see," said DeLuna.

"Such a large plant would mean several hundred jobs to the people in the area. It's a very appealing proposition for the county as well, nontoxic product, high profile company, very profitable. Such a facility would be around for a long time. It would mean tens of millions of dollars in tax revenues to the city and to the borough of Queens over the years."

DeLuna let Macfarlane ramble on. "I see," he repeated for the third time.

"Knowing that you might have significant investments in the borough, I thought you'd have an interest in any such zoning changes in order to be able to take any and all legal advantage of them. We're always soliciting investment opportunities in Queens. You do own properties in the area, don't you?"

"I might," said DeLuna. "I'd have to check."

"I see," said Macfarlane. He was just doing his job—soliciting investments in his borough. That's what he was doing. That's exactly what the words said. No one could possibly interpret them as anything else, even if they were heard at some other time, somewhere else, out of context. "Such a zoning change may make any properties in that area very valuable for certain uses. Just take this situation with Fairchild MotorCars, for example."

DeLuna shifted in his seat and put down his coffee cup. It was getting down to it. "Fairchild MotorCars?" he prompted.

"Yes. That's the piece of property Allied Foods is interested in purchasing. I had several representatives from Allied in here yesterday, along with some folks from the dealership, including Shannon Fairchild herself, and her daughter. You're acquainted with Mrs. Fairchild, are you not, Mister DeLuna?"

"We've met at some functions."

"Wonderful woman, isn't she? As far as I can see, there's nothing that would prohibit a rezoning of that area. I'm going to recommend it to the city planning people. It will make Fairchild MotorCars quite a valuable piece of property."

It took a while, but they were there. DeLuna posed thoughtfully. "That's quite interesting," he said.

Macfarlane leaned forward, his eyes burning a path. "I'm pretty sure the ballpark they're playing in is somewhere between thirty and forty million. Mrs. Fairchild and her daughter will become very wealthy women indeed, but it's not like the Fairchilds need the money, is it, Mister DeLuna?" Baddabing, delivery made.

"I wouldn't know," DeLuna said coyly. "I didn't know the daughter was involved in any of the Fairchild enterprises."

"Yes. It seems she's half owner of that particular property."

"I see," said DeLuna.

Macfarlane extended his hand. "Well," he said, clearly bringing the meeting to an end, "I knew that Mister Gagliano's business dealings were substantial in that area, and I just thought he, you, would like to know about the proposed changes. They could alter the earning potential of any properties you may own there currently, or in the future. Thanks for taking the time to come by and chat."

"My pleasure," said DeLuna, reaching into his breast pocket and taking out a thick grey envelope. He laid it on the desk and took Macfarlane's hand, businessman to businessman. "I'll have my people explore any alternative uses for any properties I might own as soon as I hear the zoning changes have been finalized."

Macfarlane glanced at the envelope. "Well then, I'll be sure to stay in touch."

"I'll be looking forward to it." Baddaboom, delivery accepted. DeLuna turned and left.

Macfarlane looked down at the desk. Oh, darn, he thought. Look. Mister DeLuna forgot his package. Oh well, he'd just put it away for safekeeping until he'd see Mister DeLuna again. That's what he'd do. Macfarlane opened the bottom drawer of his desk, the one with the lock on it, and he put the envelope there, in that drawer with the lock on it, right next to the package that Paul Barrons had forgotten the day before. Must be something in the air, Macfarlane surmised. Everyone was being so forgetful.

Chapter 78... Kid Madrid

Fully aware that every pair of eyes along salesmen's row was glued to her butt, Chita snaked in and out between the cars, hoping they would hide her. The whistles and come-ons were back, especially since Carmen had announced that Patty was on a "long vacation," and he was in charge while she was gone. While the cat's away.... He'd made no bones about the fact that the long vacation he'd so publicly announced was, in his mind, permanent. Carmen, Carmen, Carmen, she reflected: he was really a car guy at heart, and he was playing the role magnificently. But, was he really playing? she questioned. She had her doubts sometimes. She wanted him to go back to being the Carmen she liked, the one she'd known as a humble, hard-working young mechanic, but she had her doubts as to whether he could ever be that way again. The beating, and the incident with his parents' house had made him angry, too angry to put on airs. Now, he was being Kid Madrid, and it was difficult to tell where the play-acting stopped and real life began. Chita made her way up the center aisle across a showroom floor so shiny that she wondered if anyone could see up her skirt in the reflection. Carmen was at the base of the tower training a new lot lizard.

"You don't sell the steak," said Carmen. "You sell the sizzle."

The new lot lizard fixed a look on him. "Huh?" he said profoundly.

"You don't sell the car, you sell the romance." The Kid was talking. "You gotta get the guy to fall in love with the car, man. Any moron can tell the maggot that the car's got MacPherson struts. You gotta be different. You gotta make the guy get a fuckin' boner over it."

Chita took the profanity in stride, knowing it was car-guy talk and if she objected, it would get worse.

The new not lizard backed off a step. "You want me to give the guy a boner? No way, man."

"No, stupid! The car's gotta give him a boner. You gotta make him hot for the car."

Chita leaned against a brilliant emerald-green Lincoln Mark VII LSC. This was going to be good. She just hoped it wouldn't take too long; Patty was on the phone, insisting that she talk to Carmen. She was anxious, and she said she'd hold until Chita got him on the line.

Carmen looked into the lot lizard's confused face. "Get the guy to squeeze the leather," he instructed, ignoring Chita for the moment. "I mean, get him to fondle it, get a big hefty handful of it, and smell it. Tell him those seats are softer than a bucket of tits, and get the maggot into the car, man. Get him to take hold of the wheel like he's holding on to some chick's ass, and tell him to hang on 'cause he's goin' for a ride."

A spark of interest, if not understanding, flashed in the student's eyes.

"You gotta describe the car while the guy's drivin' it, man. Get him to feel how tight the suspension is. Tell him the exhausts are whispering his name. Get the guy's senses into the car." The Kid was on a roll. "Tell him to bang through the curves and drive it hard, hear the tires scream through the Ss. Get him to pound it into the wind so hard you can feel it rake against the skin like claws. Get the guy hot, man, but get him back here before he wrecks the fucking thing. Then, with the car sitting there smoking hot, as the engine winds down to a contented purr, you shut up for a second and let the car catch its breath before you pull the ignition key out of the slot."

The lot lizard was really paying attention. "Then what?" he asked, almost short of breath.

"Then," Carmen said, lowering his voice. "You get out of the car, and you step back, and you look at it. You act like you're in love with it, man."

Did he just sound like Barry White? Chita thought to herself.

"You listen to the little tick, tick, tick of the engine as it cools, like it's calling out to you. You give the car a last loving look, knowing the parts inside are still hot and lubricated. You see the last puff of vapor that comes from the exhausts, and it evaporates like a final breath. You almost make a move and get back into the car again, right then, right there, and drive it hard again, but you don't."

"What do I do?" the lot lizard asked anxiously.

"You wait," said Carmen. "You tell the guy that the car is new and it's not used to being treated rough like that. You get him close to the car, so close he can smell it, so close he can feel how hot it still is. Then, after the guy's all jacked up again, you pop the question."

"What question?"

"You ask him if he wants it, stupid!"

Chita moved away from the Mark VII, thinking it sure got hot in there all of a sudden.

"You want to see me?" Carmen called to her.

"There's an important phone call for you on two," she said, heading for showroom entrance to get some air.

"I'll be right back," Carmen said to the lot lizard, and he took the call in the tower. When Chita returned, he was back with his student. "Now don't forget," he said, "there are guy cars, and there are girl cars. What I just taught you was for a guy car."

The lot lizard seemed to have some inkling of understanding. "What if it's a girl car?"

"Then you talk about how cute and cozy the thing is, and drive it into a tunnel." Kid Madrid turned to Chita and flipped open his driving shades. He grinned widely.

"You're so full of it," she said. But before she left, she asked, "Did you get the call?"

Pulling Chita aside, he said, "I told her to take a chill pill, and that I got it all under control. I'm gonna need more time if I'm gonna run this thing like Big Tony did."

Run it the way Big Tony did? That wasn't part of the plan. "And she was okay with that?" Chita asked.

"Yes and no. She said we needed to move faster. Yeah, well, I'll get there when I get there. I never did like takin' orders from her." The lot lizard was waiting for some more pearls of wisdom. "Let me finish with the new guy," said Carmen, "and I'll catch up to you in your office."

Lot lizard to lot lizard, "I'd like to take her for a test drive," the new guy said as Chita walked off.

Carmen put on his driving shades. "Back off, Tarzan. That model's not for sale."

Chapter 79... Where Is Delmo, Anyway?

DeLuna took one look the collection of characters gathered at the table and thought his organization needed to install some sort of screening mechanism for employees. That's what the corporations did. That way, he wouldn't have to soil himself with the likes of these Neanderthals. Daydreaming while Big Tony rambled on, he wondered what the weather was like in Vegas.

"So what makes you think the kid's legit?" Big Tony asked.

"Hey, I know this kid," Billy answered, acting like the genius that he wasn't. "I raised him since he was a pup. Besides, he told me right out about that red-haired bitch. Why would he 'a done that if he wasn't on the up and up? I'm tellin' ya, the kid wants to reestablish operations.

"I think the kid's slick," said Big Tony. "A lot slicker than you think."

"Who is this red-haired person?" DeLuna asked, his tone indicating that he wasn't in the mood for bullshit. Any more incompetence from these two jackasses and they'd end up like that Tommy Lee moolie and his Amazon moolie girlfriend. He puffed on his Parodi, letting them think they'd dodged a bullet, wondering how Gagliano dealt with these idiots on a daily basis.

"She was a cop," Big Tony admitted.

Knowing that sometimes silence was louder than words, DeLuna's silent pause spoke volumes. There was no doubt in his mind that Big Tony knew the consequences of such an egregious fuck up, but it was also clear that Big Tony also knew the consequences of intentionally lying to the boss. DeLuna let the conversation continue.

"We think the daughter Fairchild brought her in and set her up to get the dope on our operation," Big Tony went on.

Sonny was sitting on Big Tony's right, nursing a beer, and it was his turn to say something brilliant. "I think Billy's right. I heard the kid's serious about gettin' something goin' again. He's askin' around a lot, says he needs the money bad."

"That's right," said Billy. "He says he needs to raise some fast cash to help out his folks. Seems their house got burned. Good thing he has no clue it was us."

DeLuna raised an eyebrow, and everyone turned toward Johnny Legs.

"We was just tryin' to convince the kid and the two bitches to quit, boss. We didn't wanna hurt nobody, like you said, so we thought we'd convince them another way."

"The kid might wanna get things back on track," Sonny continued, "but it might not be with us. I heard from another source that he's thinkin' about doin' his own thing."

"Who'd you hear that from?" Big Tony questioned.

"You know that new receptionist you hired, the one with the big headlights?" They all did, of course, except DeLuna, who didn't ask. "Well, out of the blue, she calls me about an audition and said she got my number from the kid. She heard we was doin' a new movie, she said, and wanted to show me what she could do. I had no idea what the hell she was talkin' about, new movie and all, but not for nothin' I'm always on the lookout for fresh meat, so I said what the hell, c'mon over. Tell you what, that bitch is talented, if you catch my drift. She even gave me an idea for that new movie."

"Never mind about your damned movies," DeLuna growled. "What about reestablishing operations?"

"She said the kid's runnin' his yap around the dealership, askin' if any of the guys are interested in doin' some runs on the side. Evidently, he's sayin' he's got some of our old customers needin' to move some goods. He's sayin' he's got some action lined up on his own."

"No way," shot Big Tony. "Those connections were all mine. That kid don't know shit about that."

"Hey," said Sonny. "I hear he's doin' it."

"Maybe we should send someone in to check it out," Billy suggested.

DeLuna said, "None of that matters." The comment dropped on the table like water on a campfire.

"Ah, no disrespect boss," said Big Tony, "but how the fuck can you say that?"

DeLuna didn't even flinch. "That dealership is small potatoes."

"Holtzman's operation alone took in five mil for us last year, and we musta run another three mil outta Sonny's yard." Big Tony swallowed hard now. "And it woulda been more if Tommy Lee hadn't tried to be his own man. I'd say that's a whole shitload of potatoes."

"The place is going to be worth five times that within the next month or two," DeLuna said confidently. A round of what-the-fuck-is-he-talking-about looks made their way around the table. "We need to establish ourselves as owners, gentlemen, not merely as management."

"We already tried that," said Big Tony. "Remember how the old lady Fairchild jacked the price and then said she couldn't sell 'cause her daughter was half owner? And besides, the high and mighty bitch never came around anyway. The place was as good as ours. What difference does it make if we're owners or not? We can still run our action out of there if we get our team back in place. We had it hummin' like a machine, and down below the radar."

"The difference," said DeLuna, "is that someone wants to buy the property. Buy it, gentlemen, and as management we can't reap the profits from any such transaction. However, if we owned it, well that would be a horse of a different color, wouldn't it?"

Horse, reap, what the fuck...? "How much they wanna buy it for?" shot Big Tony.

"We're talking maybe forty million."

Someone let go with a long, low whistle. "For that dump?" Johnny exclaimed.

"Believe it," DeLuna countered. "I have it from a very reliable source. We need to become owners, gentlemen—owners."

Johnny jumped in, thinking they were now entering his field of specialization. "It strikes me that in order for us to become owners, the current owners need to be—"

"Removed from the situation," DeLuna interjected in case the rest of the idiots around the table didn't get it. "I want anyone involved with that place out of the picture so we can exercise the Fairchilds' original sale agreement with Mister DeLorenzo. Once we're in place, we'll do our own deal with the Allied people."

"But what if when all these people are gone these Allied guys decide to back out?" Johnny asked. "Sorry boss," he added, seeing the look on DeLuna's face. "Just tryin' to look at this from every angle."

"They had one plant in Jersey go down already," said DeLuna. "I'm sure they wouldn't want another unfortunate incident like that to happen to them again somewhere else." No one spoke, the only noise inside the Blue Moon Social Club being that of the traffic coming from Mott Street. Sonny took a sip of his beer. Big Tony's lips were suddenly very dry and he moistened them with some red wine. Billy lit a smoke and inhaled half the air in New York.

Johnny took out a little spiral notebook. "When do you want this to happen?" he asked.

"Soon," said DeLuna.

"We got names and addresses?"

"Not like that. It can't look methodical, and it has to be done so that it can't be traced back to us. It has to look like we're out of the picture."

"Boss, just to be clear; are you sayin' you don't want nobody around later that might know somethin' about what the fuck is goin' on?"

DeLuna looked at his watch. He was going to be late for his squash match again. "I don't have to be any more specific, do I gentlemen?" He took a last sip of his espresso and headed toward the door. "Put together a plan and get back to me."

"Hey boss," Johnny called. "Is it possible to get 'em all in one place at the same time?"

"Work on it," DeLuna ordered.

"We might need some help communicating with the Fairchild broads. We don't exactly do tea with them, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, and I think our new movie star said the younger Fairchild bitch is in California," Sonny commented.

DeLuna paused. Patty Fairchild wasn't in California. Didn't Macfarlane say she was in his office just a couple of days ago? He'd have to check on that. But Johnny was right: they were stratospheres apart and Johnny's connections didn't go that far. DeLuna opened the door to Mott Street. "I'll see what I can do on that angle," he said, stepping into his other world, the one where he was a wealthy and respected import/export executive who liked the good life.

With the boss gone, Johnny took control of the meeting, his persona totally different but just as powerful as the one that just left. "Forty million fuckin' bucks: can you believe it?" Everyone chewed on that for a second. "How many people we talkin' about here?"

"A few," said Billy. "This ain't gonna be easy."

"Who we got that can set this thing up?"

"No one on the inside," said Big Tony.

"Unless we use the kid," said Billy.

"I thought the kid was one 'a them," said Johnny. "Does anybody know what the fuck is really goin' on with him?"

"Then why would he be askin' me to come back, and why would he be askin' about Big Tony and Delmo if he wasn't on our side?"

"We gotta know where this kid stands," said Johnny. "Why don't you check it out some more and get back to me. Speaking of Delmo, anybody know what's up with him?"

"He's around," Billy answered. "Keepin' busy."

"Tell 'im to come around," said Johnny. "Maybe we can do one 'a them post office jobs—you know, pissed off employee goes nuts." Everyone got the picture.

Chapter 80... October 1st

It was the beginning of a new month. A new month was like a new life in the car business. The salesmen who'd had a good month came in relaxed and nonchalant, chatty even. They drank coffee and talked sports, ate donuts and looked at chicks, and generally took most of the morning getting themselves serious about selling cars again. They could chill for a few. The ones who'd had a so-so month came in and prepared themselves like a runner setting up in the starting blocks. They'd had just enough success to make them eager, but not enough to make them complacent. They were always the ones who took the first ups on the first day of the month. The ones who'd had a shitty month usually came in the back door looking over their shoulders, wondering which minute of the day the general manager would pick to fire their sorry ass. Generally, they stayed out of direct sight of the tower on the first day of the month. If they made it through the first day, they knew they'd get another thirty. The first day of October was a Tuesday, and the air was electric inside the showroom that morning.

Carmen leafed through the vouchers for the previous Saturday's business, checking how much had been held on the deals. There were sixteen of them. Sixteen vouchers, in one day! He couldn't remember a day when they'd delivered sixteen cars, not even when Big Tony was there. Patty would have been pleased. Smugly, he checked the totals for the month, noting that they'd delivered twice as many deals in the last fifteen days of the month as they had the first fifteen, three of them the day before—on a Monday. Nineteen deals in two days: damn he was good. It had only been about two weeks since Patty began her little vacation. He decided to call her with the good news. She answered on the first ring.

"This is Carmen," he said quickly.

"I knew it was you. What's the count?"

He reached behind him and pulled a binder of computer printouts from the credenza. Quickly, he added two days' totals to those in the column marked Month-to-date.

"A hundred and seven," he proclaimed.

"You're kidding. A hundred and seven cars? Really?"

"Yup." There was no need to brag. The number said it all.

"We've never broken a hundred before, have we?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"You must be very proud."

Geez, she didn't sound very happy. He rocked back in his chair. "Eeeee-yup," he said, letting out a long sigh. "A hundred and seven. Maybe when you come back I'll show you how it's done. You know, watch, learn, and listen." There was silence on the other end of the line. It was a joke; she was supposed to laugh. "Are you there?" he asked.

"Yeah... I'm here."

He thought he detected a sniffle. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm.... No, I'm not," she admitted. "It doesn't sound like you need me."

Uh-oh. "Of course we do," he said, unconvinced that he sounded at all convincing.

"No, you don't," she said, sounding very convinced. "Not if you do a hundred new deals a month. How many used cars?"

He checked the print out. "About eighty." Actually it was closer to ninety.

"Another record." There was a long pause. "You the man, Carmen." One New Yorker's salute to another.

Pride swelled like an airbag inside his chest. You the man. He loved it. He was the man. Finally, he'd proven to himself that he could do it, even if it was only once. Maybe he was Flash In The Pan again, but at least he'd gotten to the dance. Patty managed to dampen his bulging ego. "I won't be back," she said.

"What d'ya mean, you won't be back?" Geez, just because he broke a hundred cars....

"Mother found a buyer for the dealership. Paul Barrons says the offer is as good as gold."

"We need you back," he said, thinking again that he didn't sound sincere.

"No you don't, and we should call Rita and tell her we're giving up on this silly scheme we're trying to pull off. It's not like it matters anymore."

Carmen looked through the showroom windows, all the way to the gates, noticing a burgundy Monte Carlo that had just pulled in. The salesmen who'd been chick watching out near the fence gathered around it. They were happy about something.

"Carmen?"

"I'm here," he said quickly, his attention glued to the lot. The Monte Carlo wheeled up underneath the line of fluttering plastic pennants, right in front of the showroom. Billy Gatton stepped out and flicked a cigarette butt into the low bushes.

"Are you going to call Rita?" Patty asked.

Carmen's stomach tightened and the bile down below started to gurgle as he watched Billy make his way to the entrance. Billy walked in like he owned the place and slapped hands with Hernandez at the up desk. "I don't think I can," he said softly, and he hung up the phone. He straightened his pink satin tie, smoothed his lapels, and adjusted his cuffs, then walked to the edge of the tower. He put on his driving shades and crossed his hands in front of him, debating whether or not to go down and smash Billy in the face with a tire iron, but he didn't. He just stood at the top of the tower, and waited. He was the man. Let the bastard come to him.

Billy had attitude of his own to put off. He strutted across the floor and lit a smoke, exhaling upward in Carmen's direction. Carmen didn't move a muscle. "Bygones?" said Billy.

Carmen took off the driving shades. "Depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you do what the fuck I want you to do." Carmen stepped back into the middle of the tower. Let the bastard come to him, and the bastard did, again.

Billy came up and took a seat. Dropping the keys to the Monte Carlo on the desk, he tried to match Carmen's show of bravado. "And just what the fuck is that?" He put his feet up and smoked.

"Get your feet off the fuckin' desk. And look at me when I'm talking to you."

"What the fuck, Madrid?" He pulled his feet off the desk. "What's with the attitude? I thought you said we was friends."

Carmen rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "Things change, asshole. Last time I called you, you wouldn't give me the time of day, so don't go makin' out like we're long lost buddies. The only fuckin' friend I need right now is colored green. If you can help with some jobs, fine. If not, you can go fuck yourself and the white horse you rode in on."

Billy sat up. "Simmer down, okay? That's why I'm here."

Carmen popped a mint. "Spill."

"I talked with Big Tony and Delmo."

"So?"

"So, you still interested in gettin' back together with 'em?"

"Maybe. Business is poppin' along pretty good, on both sides, if you know what I mean. Seems like Big Tony's connections ain't as tight as he thinks. Money talks, bullshit walks." Carmen cracked the mint with his teeth.

Billy gave him the eyeball. "You can be a real cocky, prick bastard when you wanna be, eh kid? They still callin' you Kid Madrid around here?"

"What the fuck does that have to do with the price of tea in China? Get to the point."

"Big Tony's been in touch with a few friends, and he's got a job he needs done. Got a shipment of candy that needs to move."

"So, what's he need me for? Tell him to make the fuckin' delivery on his own."

"This ain't no delivery." Billy blew more smoke. "This is a buy." Carmen's eyes were like the eyes in a painting, following every move. "We got a customer lined up at the other end, and we're playin' the middle. That fuckin' Tommy Lee was good for somethin' after all."

Carmen popped another mint. The comment about Tommy Lee came out like it was common knowledge that he got his face shot off on East 82nd, but it didn't sound like Billy was aware that he and Chita had seen the whole thing. Let the bastard come to him, Carmen thought again, and the bastard did, again.

"Big Tony wants you to bankroll the buy. He's a little dry right now."

The more Billy talked and postured, the more Carmen tried to keep himself from putting his hands around Billy's throat. "He wants me to be Holtzman," he surmised.

"Right on, bother man." Billy cracked a toothy brown smile. "Can you handle it?"

Carmen crossed to the other side of the desk, putting his face into Billy's. "How much, asshole?"

Trying to not be intimidated, Billy stood up. "A hundred grand, douchebag, nothing larger than a twenty."

Jesus, thought Carmen. A hundred thousand? "When?" he asked, not reacting, trying to stay cool.

"Friday night."

"What's in it for me?"

"Ten percent at the other end, after we make the sale. That's twenty-five grand."

"I want twice that—and I want it up front."

"There's no fuckin' way you're gonna get fifty thousand, let alone up front. I already told you, man, he's dry as a fuckin' bone. Otherwise why would I be here wastin' my fuckin' breath?"

Carmen paused, having no idea where to go next. He said the first thing that came into his head. "Then I'll take the twenty-five at the other end, plus a ten percent cut of the product," he said, showing no hint of the anxiousness inside him.

"He can't do that. He'd have to renegotiate his deal."

"Then renegotiate the buy and get an extra couple of kilos for the same price."

"What the fuck you gonna do with two kilos of Stingray?"

"It's like I said. Maybe some of Big Tony's old friends ain't as tight with him as he thinks." Every nerve in Carmen's body stood at attention. "You assholes renegotiate the deal so I get what I want, and I'll bankroll it just like you want. Take it, or fuckin' leave it."

"Well, well, well," said Billy, breaking out a grin. "Kid Madrid makes the big time. I'll see what I can do, okay? How do I know you'll have the money?"

Carmen picked up the phone and dialed Chita's extension. "Make sure we have a hundred thousand on hand by Friday. Small bills." He slapped the receiver down, not giving her a chance to respond. It wasn't five seconds later that she came out, hips churning, and spotted Billy in the tower. Abruptly, she snapped a right turn down salesmen's row.

Billy's grin widened. "You still bangin' that?" he asked. "Tell me Kid, she got a pussy or a snatch?"

Carmen's fist was a blur as it flew through the air. When it landed, the skin on his knuckles broke cleanly as they hammered into two of Billy's front teeth. Billy, who had the misfortune of being at the top of the six steps at that particular moment in his disgusting life, flew completely off the tower, almost falling unconscious as he gagged on his own blood.

Pointing down at Billy, his hand dripping, "Don't ever talk about her like that again," Carmen roared. He jumped off the tower and grabbed Billy's hair. "And another thing. You ever touch me again like you did that night on the lot, and I'll cut your balls off and stuff them down your throat. You got that?" His voice was scarier than even he knew it could be.

Billy nodded as best he could.

Carmen let go of Billy's head and it bounced against the floor with a sickening thud. "Now get the fuck outta here and don't ever show your ugly, fuckin' face around here again. You wanna do business, you send someone else around on Friday. And tell 'em to make a fuckin' appointment first. I got things to do."

He climbed the six steps and felt something under his shoe. He looked down, and kicked Billy's teeth off the tower.

Chapter 81... Proper Influence

It's amazing how even the most complicated things can work smoothly with the proper lubrication. Gears shift better; doors open and close without the slightest squeak; the most controversial of issues slide right through committees. James Douglas Macfarlane grabbed a notepad with From the Office of.... engraved across the top, and scribbled a few notes so as not to forget any details. "Let's get this thing done," he said to the party on the other end of the phone line.

Paul Barrons grabbed a notepad with the words From the Office of.... engraved across the top, and he wrote a few words so he wouldn't forget any details. This was getting complicated, he thought, as any deal of this size was bound to be. "Gimme the names again," he said.

Twirling his plastic City of New York pen, Macfarlane spoke slowly so that nothing would be misunderstood. Yes sir, this thing should slide right through, he thought—nice and quiet. "From my side, there'll be myself, maybe Cleavon Sumpters from the Chamber of Commerce, Katrina Goldmann from Housing and Urban Development, and, of course, Schwartz.

"Schwartz is the guy from zoning, right?"

"Right. He's the guy we need to persuade."

"Persuade? I thought you said this thing was a lock."

"It is," Macfarlane countered quickly. "But we need to go through the motions. People like to be wined and dined, romanced a little; you know how it is. Maybe you know someone who could pay a little extra attention to him, if you catch my drift." He looked up from the phone and smiled.

Barrons wrote the names down, and nodded. He caught the drift, all right. "I'll see what I can do," he said, twirling his solid gold Aurora pen as he talked. Barrons checked off the names as he went down his own list. "There'll be the three guys from Allied Foods, Shannon Fairchild—"

"And the daughter," Macfarlane interjected. "Make sure the daughter is there."

"Right," said Barrons, thinking nothing of it. "She'll be there, as well as the people from the banks, Allied's CFO—he's coming into Kennedy that morning—and me." Barrons paused for a second. "I'll bring my secretary too," he added. "We'll need her."

"Fine," said Macfarlane, thinking nothing of it.

"What time?"

Smiling to himself, "Let's get you and the Fairchild girls there a little early," Macfarlane instructed. "Just to make sure we're all on the same page of music. How about late in the day, say around five? Maybe we can all do some dinner after we close the deal. I know a nice little place in Little Italy."

"Sounds good. What's Schwartz's first name?"

"Chester," Macfarlane replied, wondering what that had to do with anything.

Barrons made another check mark. Chester: how fitting, he thought. He should be no problem for Mary. "See you Friday at five then... Right... Bye now." He buzzed his secretary. "Mary, can you arrange your schedule so that you're available to entertain on Friday night... No, this is business... I'll leave that up to you, but you always seem to know what to wear... Yes, I know it's Friday, but I'll make sure there's a little something extra in your paycheck... Fine then... Oh, and Mary? By the way, his name is Chester... that's right, Chester Schwartz... No, I don't know how old he is, but it might be a good idea to wear that perfume I like so much on you, what's it called?... Right, Poison.

Back in his office, mission accomplished for part one, thought Macfarlane, and he checked off the names on another list before making his next call, a slightly different list than the one he'd just given to Paul Barrons. They were, in order of importance: Shannon Fairchild, Patty Fairchild, and Barrons himself, whose presence he'd just confirmed. He looked at the next name, Charristida Espino, whoever the hell she was, with a question mark next to Espino. It wasn't even certain that she'd be needed, he'd been told, but nevertheless he'd make sure someone from his office contacted her to request that she be present at the announcement ceremony. Nothing like a little proper influence to make things happen.

He picked up the phone again and punched in a number he'd written down earlier. "Captain Delgado, please," he said quickly, "Borough President Macfarlane calling." Delgado picked up immediately. It was nice to be important. "Captain Delgado? J.D. Macfarlane here... Yes, fine thank you. I just got a call from our friends over in Jersey and it seems they need a favor. They have it on good information that a decent sized drug deal is going down on Friday night... Right... a car dealership... on Jamaica Avenue... Yes, I know that's Miller's precinct, but I also know you've had a couple of detectives involved with that place for a couple of months now on one of your own cases... Yes, that's right, Fairchild MotorCars... Captain Delgado, there's nothing that goes on in the Borough of Queens that I don't know about... Friday night, around five. Please, I would take it as a personal favor... Who? The Governor of New Jersey himself, that's who... Yes, well, you know how politics works... Yes, I'll check with Miller to see if he can handle it, but seeing as you've had two officers involved with the place already, I thought it might be best to call you first... Fine then, you can have Lieutenant Grimstead call me if you like... Nice talking to you too... Glad I brought you into the loop." Macfarlane hung up and checked off two more names: Rita O'Shea and Hector Morena. He folded his hands in front of him and looked at his guest expectantly. "How'd I do?"

"He didn't sound too happy," said Michael DeLuna.

"He was just hesitant to overstep his precinct boundaries, but I'll follow up tomorrow and make sure it happens. It won't be any problem." Looking at his guest, Macfarlane thought he'd rather still be doing business with Gagliano.

"Make sure that you do," said DeLuna, getting up and leaving a package on Macfarlane's desk. It was a very thick package.

Chapter 82... The Force

There comes a time in everyone's life when he or she wonders what the hell they're doing with themselves, finding themselves at a place totally unknown and unanticipated, and uncertain of where they're headed. The road took a left turn and they didn't expect it, or it forked and they went the wrong way. Whatever the case, it's not unusual for someone to wonder if there's a way to backtrack and try another direction. Where was all this taking him? Carmen wondered.

The voices around him were clear enough, but they were just so much incessant buzzing in the background. He'd gotten his revenge. His sore knuckles and Billy's broken teeth were evidence of that, but there were other issues that needed to be addressed. What about his parents' house? Who was going to fix that? It would be ages before the insurance money came through, and they could live with him until it did, he figured, but the guilt was eating him alive and that scenario didn't sit well with him.

And what about the dealership? He'd worked like a dog for the last six years to get where he was, coming all the way from get-ready where he'd washed cars and shined tires for minimum wage, all the way into sales. Now he'd come to the end of that road, and he was what he'd always wanted to be—a big shot, the man, the big Kahuna, but that didn't feel all that great either. There wasn't the respect he imagined there'd be with such a lofty title. There was no adulation. There was no job satisfaction. It was just a huge pain in the ass most of the time, listening to lots of bitching from people who followed his instructions for any number of reasons, but certainly not because they thought he was smarter, or better at the job, than they were. They figured he was just some 'hood rat who'd gotten lucky, that's all. Hell, for all he knew, the road he was on led to a cliff and he was traveling toward it at ninety miles an hour. Rita's voice suddenly blocked the road.

"You can't back out now. We've got them right where we want them."

"Where the hell is all this going?" Carmen asked sourly. "Is this really going to make a difference in anything? What are we trying to accomplish?" Indeed, the questions were telling ones. A hushed silence fell over the room, and Carmen scanned the faces around him. Their concentration downward was so intense that, for a second, he thought maybe there was a snake on the floor.

"Don't you want to get back at them for what they did to your parents, for what they did to you?" Rita pleaded. "Surely you want some payback."

Carmen walked over to the glass walls of the F & I office and pulled the shades halfway down. People were looking. "I've already gotten my payback," he said, holding his swollen hand for her to see. "I popped that bastard's front teeth right out of his head, just like he tried to do to me."

His macho show didn't impress Morena, who fired a short, breathy "Hhumpphh," back at him.

"What's with you?" Carmen snapped.

"Don't be another punk. You aren't that tough."

"I'm tough enough," Carmen snapped again. "Tough enough to get what I want, and I got it. Why do I need to go around trying to change the world? None of this is going to amount to a hill of shit anyway."

Chita was doing a slow burn. "And what have you got?" she asked. "Tell me what makes you so proud of yourself." He didn't respond right away, so she did it for him. "I'll tell you: nothing!" she proclaimed, her chin set firm.

"Hey, I'm the general manager of this dealership. How many twenty-three-year-olds can say that, huh?" He had some serious attitude.

"For once in your life stop peddling your salesman's bullshit and do something because it's the right thing to do," she shot back. "Have some guts."

"Guts! You know, I've had just about enough of your—"

"Stop it, both of you!" Rita yelled. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

"Yeah, well, where am I gonna get if we go through with this stupid plan? Huh? Someone answer me that!"

"Carmen," Rita said softly. "Have you ever wondered how really important people got where they are?"

"All the time," he said, settling in for the sermon he thought was coming.

"When I was a little girl, my father's beat was Jackson Heights, and I remember walking with him when he was off duty right down Roosevelt Avenue. Things were different in Jackson Heights back then, but not as much as you might think. I remember how people looked at him, how they respected him, not because he was a cop, but because of some inner strength he radiated. They knew that whatever problems came along, he'd have an answer for them."

"Sounds like some kind of damned social worker, if you ask me," Carmen said smartly.

Rita held her tongue. "He was no social worker, Carmen, but he was more than just a cop. He had a guiding force about him, about rightness and wrongness, about where to go when the road got muddy, or when it came to an intersection he'd hadn't seen before."

"So?"

"So... he knew where he was going. He picked the path down which he would travel. He didn't wander aimlessly from one situation to the next, trying to figure out who was trying to get over on him so he could to get over on them first."

"He was a cop," Carmen protested.

"And you don't think there's temptation for a cop to go the wrong way? Right. Hell, we just love having the opportunity to get our heads blown off for giving someone a traffic ticket. It's a thrill-a-day, and they pay us to do it, too. Yes sir, $21,500 a year. Why, I feel so fortunate. Now I can afford an apartment without rats."

"Oooh," said Chita.

"But cops are supposed to do the right thing," Carmen said weakly.

"Everyone is supposed to do the right thing, Carmen. That's what makes you strong. It's the guiding force, kid. When you come to a situation you've never encountered before, you know exactly what to do. It may not make a difference right then, or right there, but eventually it will. If enough people do the right thing, the honest thing, the compassionate thing, sooner or later the world will become a better place. I have to believe that."

"That's all a bunch of crap," he shouted, pointing to himself with his thumb. "The only thing that matters is what's in it for me? There's nobody gonna give you squat if you don't take it, and there's always somebody out there trying to take away what you got. Isn't there? Isn't there?" he repeated testily. Their silence was answer enough. "Yeah, well, I don't hear much to the contrary. You gotta take what you can in life, the old look out for number one."

It came from the left, and the first one to notice was Morena whose eyes followed her every move. Rita noticed it too, and Carmen turned, looking behind him through the half-shaded glass walls. It came all the way across the F & I office: boom boom, ta ta boom boom—boom boom boom ta ta boom. Ta ta boom boom. Ta boom. Knock, knock, knock. The intercom beeped on Chita's phone and Tanisha's voice squawked through. "Mister Carmen, sugar, Holly's here to see you."

"I know," Carmen said into the air. "She's here." Boy, was she there.

"Hiya, _sugar_ ," Holly said when he opened the door. "Gotta minute? Sonny sent me."

"Sure," said Carmen, closing the door behind him.

"What's with all this sugar crap?" Chita asked when Carmen stepped outside. She watched while Holly played suggestively on Carmen's sleeve, an index finger tracing its way down, arcing up and rubbing his cheek. She opened her jacket. "What is that?" Chita blurted, referring to Holly's splendid attire. "What the hell is that made of? Is that... rubber?"

Rita said, "Ssshhh," and Morena just stared.

A few leering moments later, Carmen broke into a big grin and pocketed a piece of paper that Holly Hollow, movie star, had folded into his hand. She spread her lips into a glistening smile, touching them, and then touched Carmen's lips with the same finger. She turned. She was gone. Boom boom boom ta boom boom. Boom boom, ta ta boom. Ta boom. Carmen came back inside.

Chita said, "Welcome back, sugar."

Carmen gave her a glance. Was she a little stoked about something? Like that was something new.

Morena was obviously a little stoked as well, but in a different way. "What was that about?"

"She said to get the money by Friday afternoon and to call this number at three o'clock to confirm it was ready. She said someone would answer and tell us where to pick up the Stingray. What exactly is Stingray anyway?"

"Colombian heroin," Rita answered. "Kills a lot of people. Let me see the number." She took a moment and handed it to Morena. "Recognize it?"

"We'll run it," he said, tucking the slip of paper into his pocket.

Rita slapped Carmen with a dead stare. "Are you gonna go through with this, or not? If it's not, I need to know now."

"I'll think about it," he called over his shoulder as he walked out the door. "It's like I said, what's in it for me? You've got the number. That's all you need."

Shaking her head, Chita got up and eased out the door as well. "Carmen, sugar," she muttered under her breath, but not quite, adding, "What a slut."

"Everything's hinging on him, isn't it?" Rita asked.

"Might be," Morena replied. "Like he said, we've got the number, but I wish we had his number. I can't peg this kid."

"I know what you mean. I wish he'd figure out what he wants to be when he grows up."

Chapter 83... The Action

It never stops around Times Square. It just flows in various waves of intensity, like the surf, and the waves at the edges of the action are always less intense than the ones at the center. It starts as far out as the public library at the corner of 5th Avenue and 42nd Street where boys who are looking for men are always skulking somewhere near the lions on either side of the impressive steps there. Bryant Park, or more precisely, the bushes in Bryant Park, behind the library, will be one small epicenter once darkness falls. That's when boy meets man, man pays boy, and man does boy, or vice versa.

The action flares up again between 7th Avenue and The Avenue of the Americas, where peep shows sprout up like offspring from seeds carried by the wind—overflow, if you will, displaced by the city's attempt at revitalizing the area. The sleaze just squishes over when a new building is erected, like so much excess chocolate pudding.

Between the avenues, the crowd comes and goes, as does the attention of the vice squad, which always rotates a few of its undercover representatives into the area. The male and female bait cruise the fronts of the shops brazenly, first one side of the street, then the other, moving quickly into the larger school of deviants riding the waves of depravity between 7th and 8th Avenues. There the crowd there is always thick, the smelly carnivores preying like sharks on unsuspecting, obvious tourists who prefer to be ignored but can't help but be noticed. Pssst, pssst, five-dollar bags, man. Hey baby, you wanna go out? Girls, man... girls! You want a girl, man? The comments come from nowhere, out of shadowed, narrow doorways of narrow buildings, doorways that lead to places that smell of urine and despair. Many of the passersby move hurriedly toward their destinations, while others hover in obvious curiosity. Sometimes the comments and come-ons come from right behind them, close to their ears, so close they can smell the beer breath. They look, but there's no one there. The carnivore is gone, a dark ghost that vanishes into the breeze like a black spray. They should check their pockets.

The action takes an abrupt turn into the theater district, passing the sanctuary on the north side of West 43rd Street where the freakazoids dare not linger, for there are the loading docks for the New York Times. There, the gleaming white trucks shine behind huge-gutted union guardians who stand on the docks ready to pounce on anyone who attempts to piss on their turf.

North, past West 43rd, the action changes again. The peep shows and sex shops continue up 7th Avenue and Broadway under towering walls of lights, but the side streets are full of different fish. Stretch limos park defiantly in no-parking zones, and drivers puff idly on cigarettes as they wait for their loads to emerge from theaters where good tickets cost what they make in a week. When the loads do emerge, they're more often than not tuxedoed and glittered, and they all have straight, white teeth. They move quickly across the sidewalks through tunnels of bulky bodyguards, and are gulped by the open-door limos to be whisked away to places where they don't have to breathe the same air as prostitutes.

On the corner of Broadway and West 50th Street, waiting for the light to change, the throng of people watches as a blue-jeaned tough guy shoots the finger at a car that blasts its horn at him for crossing against the light. He plays bullfighter with the car for a few moments, then shoots the finger again and moves off toward 8th Avenue where he disappears into the cold, darkening dusk. When the light changes, the first person off the curb is an eleven-year-old who is out alone, and whose mother would happy enough if he got home eventually without getting knifed. The second one off the curb is a major league baseball player with a thousand cash in his pocket, looking for a particular topless bar in the area. The third is a judge, looking for a hooker who'd let him watch while she puts on the lipstick he's carrying in his pocket.

Patty Fairchild steps off behind the three of them, lost in thought, already having forgotten the theme of the Wednesday matinee she'd just attended. She marches along, across Broadway on West 50th, hoping the action will distract her. The after-work crowd is starting to leak out of the office buildings, the subway entrances are jammed, and the action is starting to simmer, yet nothing registers in her brain save the fuzzy, shimmering images of the Broadway lights. They're getting brighter by the minute in the darkening twilight. New York, the city that never sleeps, the city where the action never stops, isn't enough to distract her even momentarily from the thoughts that dominate all others in her brain. Enough is enough. No deal. The dealership isn't for sale, and that's that, no matter how much money the Allied people offer. And enough of this vacation crap. On Friday, when she meets with the Allied people and the city's zoning people at the dealership, she'll tell Carmen that she's coming back. That's what she'll do. That, and get her mother royally pissed off, again. But her mother does everything royally, doesn't she?

The baseball player ducks into the topless bar, the judge ducks down West 47th, fingering the hundred-dollar bill in his pocket, and the eleven-year-old makes a swing through one of the cheap electronics stores to steal something, anything, to trade for a joint that surely someone will be hawking on 8th Avenue. Patty marches into the parking garage, and moments later her canary yellow Corvette squeals to a stop in front of her; she hands a buck to the Panamanian attendant. She guns the engine and hauls into the street, laying a two-foot long patch of rubber when she slams the car into second to make the light at the corner of 47th and 7th. The car responds magnificently, and the tires squeal again when she takes the right onto East 57th, the engine whining and growling with that distinctive, powerful sound of a Corvette L98, 230 horsepower.

Chapter 84... Places Everyone!

Delvin Maurice Kennedy, a.k.a., Albert The Razor Goodwin, which was the name on his rap sheet and the name by which his parole officer knew him, checked the clip for his VP70 machine pistol. The clip held eighteen rounds and the pistol was capable of firing three-round bursts with only one squeeze of the trigger. One clip should be enough for this job, he figured, but he loaded two, just in case. It would be his biggest job to date, as would be the payoff; the kid was supposed to have a hundred grand with him. He checked his watch, determining that he'd better get going even though it seemed like there was plenty of time. Traffic coming out of Manhattan would be heavy on a Friday afternoon. He put the pistol into a plain brown paper bag and dropped it, and himself, onto the leather seat of a steel-gray Lincoln Continental Mark VII. He turned the key and let the car purr for a minute as he adjusted the mirrors and the suspension setting—just in case—feeling the car settle lower on its wide tires. He checked all the gauges, and slipped the car into drive. Coming out of the Battery Tunnel, he remembered to put on his driving gloves—just in case—gripping the wheel securely as he snapped the Lincoln around slower traffic. Nice car, he thought as he whizzed along Gowanus Expressway toward the Belt Parkway and Queens, but it weighed almost two tons and could have used a bit more power than was in the Lincoln Mark VII, 140 horsepower.

* * * * *

"I thought you stopped makin' movies," said Big Tony as he watched the TV screen.

"This is just an audition tape. Besides, how do you know that's me?" Sonny asked, a proud sneer hanging on his bronze face.

"It's either you, or Secretariat." Big Tony walked the length of the doublewide and took two Heinekens from the refrigerator. Coming back, he paused in front of the TV as he handed one of the beers to Sonny. It was a particularly deep and profound moment. "God almighty," he exclaimed. "The girl's some piece of work. Where'd you find her?"

His eyes never leaving the screen, Sonny cracked open the beer and replied, "Look close. You seen her before."

Big Tony's big face scrunched up into a little squint, but it was hard to recognize the girl from only the stretched-out lips surrounding Sonny's flagpole. A few moments later, the camera panned back and the girl smiled into it, asking whoever was photographing the action, "How am I doin'?"

"You're a natural baby," said the voice behind the camera. "Show everybody some 'a those nice chocolate titties." Tanisha gleefully took one in each hand and jiggled them for the camera, the smile on her face clearly showing her pride.

"Is that who I think it is?" said Big Tony.

"Sure is," Sonny replied. "You sure know how to pick 'em."

"I think you can than Holtzman for that. He's the one that hired her."

"I never imagined the girl could be anywhere near as good as Holly. Watch, I think this is the part where she—

Boom boom, ta, boom boom—ta boom boom, in a bath robe. "Who the fuck is that?" Holly screamed as soon as she recognized Sonny's big bone on the TV but not the pair of lips adoring it. A moment later the newest porn star in town, Tanna Assa, flashed another sloppy smile at the camera.

Whipping off the bathrobe and stomping the length of the doublewide in a ratty flannel nightgown, "That bitch!" Holly shouted. Boom boom boom, ta BOOM! It wasn't thirty seconds later that she returned, hiking a pair of jeans over her ass, a sweater halfway down her chest. "You get anywhere near that bitch again, and I'll chop off that big cock of yours and throw it off the Queensboro Bridge!" Holly opened the door. "I'll take care of her," she howled, slamming the door so hard it shook the entire structure.

"Where the fuck is she going?"

"Who the fuck cares," Sonny answered as he rewound the tape. Changing the subject, he said, "So, you ready to take over again at the dealership?"

Big Tony hoisted his beer. "I never gave it up, as far as I was concerned."

"Right on, brother." Sonny clicked the remote. "So," he said, "you wanna watch it again?"

"Sorry, I gotta get back to my place in time for the kid's call."

Outside, the sound of a car door slamming reverberated through the doublewide, as did the sound of squealing tires. Holly Hollow, movie star, stomped on the accelerator on her way to scratch out the eyes of her latest movie rival. The Porsche whined loudly as she called on the power of its engine to propel it through the streets of South Ozone Park at over seventy miles an hour. Fast car, that Porsche, 288 horsepower.

* * * * *

Johnny Legs went over the details again. He knew that operations like this needed a lot of planning, and even then things could go wrong. People did strange things when they got scared, like the time years ago when that investment banker asked if he could take it in the nude. He'd said that at least if he was going to get it, it might as well look like he'd gotten it for fucking someone's wife rather than his investors. Johnny said, "Sure," and the guy stripped and got into bed. Johnny just walked up and put a bullet in his brain. He even messed up the sheets a little to make it look like there'd been someone else in the bed with the poor bastard.

Johnny checked his list and doubted that this job would go as easily. It was too big, and too complicated. One room, he thought. They had to get them all into one room, close to each other, or they'd scatter like fuckin' fruit flies and the shooter would never be able to pull it off. With any luck, he could pop two or three of them before anyone even realized what was happening, but Johnny knew that luck was the result of good planning. It might be better with two shooters, but the idea was to make it look like one of them workplace violence things, otherwise it would be too easy to tie it back to the family. Johnny went back to his notes. Owners at the dealership: check. Lawyer at the dealership: check. The kid: check. Billy along as a driver afterwards: check. Cops: no check.

Johnny understood the part about the owners and the kid. They'd have to go. Nobody could be left who could who'd stand in the way of them taking over the dealership again. But how was he going to know who the two cops were? He picked up the phone.

"Don't worry," DeLuna answered after listening to Johnny's question. "It's all been arranged. They'll be there looking for a drug buy."

"But that's not what's going down," Johnny protested.

"What does that matter?"

Johnny took a second, and said, "Well, I guess it don't," but he wasn't comfortable with the boss's answer. Cops were suspicious people, and if the situation didn't look right, well, who knew what they'd do? Details. One had to study the details. "How will I know who they are?" Johnny asked. "There's gonna be a shitload of people there."

"You didn't listen closely when we were discussing this, did you Johnny?" DeLuna sounded like a high school teacher explaining a math problem, not like an organized crime don explaining to his capo how to organize a massacre. "Billy knows who the cops are, and he can ID their car. They should be easy to spot. She has this red hair, and he looks like Juan Valdez, Billy says."

Johnny took a moment to think. "How will we know if they's alone?" It was a good question. "If they think there's a drug buy going down, they's probably gonna have a bunch of other cops with 'em, don'cha think?"

"It's been arranged," DeLuna answered again. "At least it better be. We didn't pay all that money to get this fucked up." As an afterthought, DeLuna added, "Maybe we should add the fat bastard to the list. He's about outlived his usefulness anyway."

Was he talking about Big Tony, or Macfarlane, Johnny wondered. "You say the word, boss," he said, thinking, wouldn't they need Macfarlane to make sure the zoning went through the way it was supposed to? As for Big Tony, he was that dealership. Without him back in charge, ain't nothin' was gonna run right. Maybe he should mention this to the boss another time, later, when he wasn't being so antsy.

"I'll let you know," said DeLuna. "Just make sure you get everyone in one place, just like we planned. And Johnny?"

"Yeah boss?"

"Don't forget to take care of the other two afterwards. We don't want anybody around later on who can make deals with the cops. You know what I mean, Johnny?"

Johnny knew exactly what he meant. "Yeah, boss. Got it." And he added two more names to his list. These two he'd have to take care of himself. Delmo: check. Billy: check.

"Boss?" Johnny asked.

"Yes?"

"When this one's done, I'm thinkin' about retirin'. I'm gettin' a little old for this, you know what I mean? I think it's time for this old dinosaur to hit the tar pits."

Not objecting, DeLuna said, "That's fine, Johnny. If everything goes right, we'll be forty million richer. I'm sure we could arrange a little nest egg for you out of that."

Respectfully, Johnny said, "Thanks boss," but he asked yet another question, one that had been bothering him for several days. "Hey boss, once these people is all out of the way, how we gonna do the legal stuff to take the place over?"

A breath of exasperation came through the phone. "Let me worry about that, okay Johnny?"

Just askin', that's all." It was a legitimate question though, and Johnny knew it. He shook his head as he reviewed the list. He was tempted to scratch the lawyer—what was his name... Barrons—off the list. They'd need him. Obviously, the boss hadn't studied the details well enough.

* * * * *

Mister Kenyon sat next to the Queen Mother while Paul Barrons' secretary sat unnecessarily close to Chester Schwartz from the Department of City Planning. Barrons congratulated himself for a job well done, just a little inward gloat, but he deserved it. Mary was doing a wonderful job of distracting helpless old Chester. She'd worn a short suit, and she wasn't too quick to pull the skirt down when it rode up her thigh, which, professionally, she'd let get teasingly close to Chester's there on the seat of the limo. When the thighs kissed, it was silken panty-hosed skin against worsted-wool skin, but it was as good as naked for old Chester. She laughed fluidly at his lame jokes, and acted supremely impressed with his lame job. A touch here, a close pepperminted breath there: the girl was a professional teaser, thought Barrons, and old Chester was eating it right up. It was going to cost Barrons an extra hundred bucks, but what the hell; the deal was worth it, and Mary wouldn't have to fuck the guy—probably.

Surprisingly, even though they'd hardly said two words to each other, there seemed to be a bit of electricity between Mister Kenyon and Shannon Fairchild. She was acting particularly aloof, maybe even a little... alluring? Could it be? Mister Kenyon certainly seemed to think so.

"Perrier?" Barrons offered to no one in particular when the silence got a little awkward.

"How about something with a little more kick to it?" said Mister Kenyon. "Just to celebrate our upcoming deal. Will you join me in a little sip, Mrs. Fairchild?"

Shannon shifted gracefully in her seat, and like the younger Mary wasn't too quick to cover up a bit of leg when her coat fell open. Barrons thought he detected... a smile, a coy, demure little smile... on Shannon's face. Well, I'll be damned, he said to himself. Another pro, and a damned good one at that. Shannon Fairchild was one woman who truly never ceased to amaze him.

Shannon said, "Why certainly Mister Kenyon, although I usually don't partake before five o'clock."

Dripping with ego, "Please, call me Frederick," said Mister Kenyon. "Mister Barrons, would you do the honors?"

Barrons took his cue. "Mister Schwartz?" he asked.

"None for me, thanks," said old Chester. "Not while on city time," he added proudly.

What a geek. "Mary?" Barrons asked next.

"No thank you," said Mary, "although maybe I'll join Mister Schwartz in a little something after we look at the site. If that's all right with you, that is, Mister Schwartz."

Old Chester twinkled like a Christmas ornament. "Please, c-call me Chester," he stammered, his tongue, and probably something else, getting a little thick.

"Fine. Call me Mary." She extended her hand, which Chester shook nervously. "My, your hands are so warm, and I'm so cold. But that drink later will warm me up. You'll see," she said with a smile, and Chester's hands got warmer, and wetter. He rubbed them on his sleeve.

Barrons put a couple of nip bottles into two plastic cups and handed one to Mister Kenyon—Frederick, now—and the other to Shannon. "I'm afraid we don't have any ice," he said.

"That's fine. I like mine neat..." said Shannon, twirling a champagne lock that had somehow gotten loose, "... and strong."

"So do I," said Frederick. He unscrewed the bottles and poured the liquor. "To a very profitable day for both of us," he pronounced. They touched cups as if it were a done deal, like a consummated marriage.

"And a profitable evening as well," Shannon added.

This was all too easy, thought Paul Barrons.

* * * * *

James Douglas Macfarlane managed to get to the bank before closing. The lines at the teller windows were short, surprising him. They were usually long on a Friday afternoon. He got into one of the lines and waited patiently, waving off cordially when the teller called out, "Next."

"You go ahead," he said warmly to the elderly woman behind him. "I'm still filling out my deposit slip."

As she hobbled toward the teller, the woman said, "Why thank you, young man. Finally, someone with some manners. We need to teach more manners in this day and age."

"Yes, we do," Macfarlane agreed. It was nice to be referred to as young. His eyes darted in all directions, and he quickly spotted the security cameras recording the happenings at the teller windows. He turned his back to the cameras and put a crisp hundred-dollar bill into the large manila envelope he was holding. The envelope contained several other smaller envelopes, thick ones, and the hundred-dollar bill wasn't part of the deposit. The teller he was waiting for, a young, black, single mother of two, looked up and spotted Macfarlane, and gave an almost imperceptible nod. When she was done with the elderly woman, she called out softly, "Next please."

Macfarlane put the manila envelope through the slot at the bottom of the Plexiglas window. "Hello," he said, again warmly.

The teller said, "Hello, Mister Howell." She looked into the manila envelope and saw the several other envelopes. "Do you want me to put these into your various accounts?"

"Please," he answered. "But I'm afraid I've forgotten the deposit slips again."

"That's okay," she said as she expertly palmed the hundred while removing the smaller envelopes. "I can find the account numbers in the computer." The teller looked at the line behind Macfarlane, and announced, "This will take a few minutes if you folks would like to move into another line."

The other customers were thankful for the tip, and Macfarlane smiled a cordial little smile as they moved off into other lines. "Sorry," he said to one woman who returned his smile with a particularly indignant New York scowl. The young teller did her best to find right accounts, but after a couple of minutes Macfarlane said, "Could you move this along please, miss? I have to be somewhere by five o'clock."

She replied, "Certainly, Mister Howell," but she didn't go any faster. She was the only teller Mister Howell ever went to, and he'd wait until she was done, just like he always did.

* * * * *

Rita checked the clock on the dashboard as Morena motored up Farmers Boulevard. It was exactly four o'clock and they should have been in position already. "One thing I don't understand," she said questioningly, "is how Delgado got wind of where this deal was going down. And why is he all gung-ho on this case all of a sudden? I mean, we're throwing all this together in a hell of a hurry and I'm not sure we're ready for it. I don't get it."

Morena waited at a light as three school children crossed the street. They still carried the faces of innocence. "Don't know," he said as he eased the Crown Vic through the intersection. "But the word about this buy got out somehow, which means someone is doing a lot of talking about it." A little more of Farmers Boulevard went past, and a few red and yellow leaves fluttered down beneath the wheels as they tooled along. "Maybe it's the kid. Have you talked to him since Wednesday?"

"I talked to him yesterday."

"And?"

"He said they were trying to get the money together, but they were having a little trouble coming up with all of it."

"A hundred thousand is a lot of cash," Morena noted. He turned onto Jamaica Avenue where the old el used to end at 188th Street, and detoured north to where Jamaica blended into old Hollis and the streets got really squirrelly. He took a left onto Hillside Avenue. "I figured we'd come in from the back side," he said.

"Good idea," said Rita, not really caring. Perhaps it was an omen, or perhaps it was coincidence, but at that very moment an old Corvette Stingray blew past them. It was colored a dark shade of black, the color that death would be if it had a color. Stingray. The word settled in her head: pure killer heroin. She wondered how many people had lost their lives because of it, and how many of those souls had appeared before Saint Peter to be turned away to eternal damnation. She looked at the clock again. "We'd better move it," she said.

Morena lowered his window and glued a magnetized blue bubble light to the roof. Immediately, drivers ahead of them looked into their rearview mirrors and traffic parted. "So, as far as you know, the kid's gonna go through with it," Morena concluded as he weaved through traffic.

"It looks like it, but I'd have to see it with my own eyes to be absolutely sure." Morena gunned the engine and Rita's head jolted back into her seat. "What's the poop on the number?" she asked, referring to the phone number Holly Hollow, movie star, had given Carmen two days earlier.

Morena popped himself in the forehead. "Unlisted number, bogus company name. Belongs to an address in Flushing."

"Who do we know that's in Flushing?"

"Not sure. Haven't had a chance to check that out yet. Remind me to call in and check on it again as soon as we find a place to settle." He slung a left onto Sutphin Boulevard and pulled the blue bubble light off the roof. A minute later, the Crown Vic was creeping down Jamaica Avenue toward Fairchild MotorCars, and Morena pulled in snugly behind a service van. To the untrained eye, it was just another shit brown car sitting at an expired meter, maybe a little too close to the vehicle in front of it. Morena hiked his collar and looked at the darkening autumn sky. "I'm gonna take a stand in the park and see if I can spot anything unusual outside the dealership," he said, referring to Rufus King Park, half a block up.

"Don't get mugged."

"Funny," he replied, but patted the lump formed by his shoulder holster as if to reassure himself. "Find out where our backup is, okay? They should be here already."

Rita said, "No problem," but she called to Morena before he got more than ten feet away. "Hey, Morena, be careful. This could be dangerous."

"Yeah, you too," Morena replied, and she picked up the handset to the police band radio while the horses under the hood of the Crown Vic napped for a while, all 180 of them.

* * * * *

Carmen paced from one corner of the tower to the other and looked at his watch. It was 4:30, and he hadn't heard shit from anybody. Nervously, he took another lap around the tower and nearly jumped through the ceiling when the phone rang. "What?" he barked quickly. It was Chita.

"I finally got all the money together." Her voice was shaky.

"Good. Bring it to the tower." He slammed the phone down, realizing he'd been a little short with her, but thought: screw it. It wasn't the time to worry about conversational courtesy. A minute later, Chita climbed the six steps and placed an attaché case on the mahogany desk. Carmen opened it, seeing stacks of tens and twenties staring back at him, all neatly banded, just like in the movies. He closed the case and grasped the handle firmly. "How'd you get it?" he asked, his eyes like tumblers on a slot machine.

"Cashed one of the manufacturer hold-back checks. We were lucky one came in yesterday and I added it to what we already had. Where are you going with that?" she asked quickly, "It took a lot of lying with the bank to get that check cashed, and I'm responsible for that money."

It went in one ear and out the other. "I'll take care of it," he said a little too adoringly, and he put the attaché case on the credenza behind the big mahogany desk.

"Have you heard from Rita?" she asked.

He looked at his watch again. "Not yet."

"I don't like this," said Chita, her dark eyes shifting nervously between the attaché case and Carmen. "This isn't the way it was supposed to go. They were supposed to call. They were supposed to let us know where they were." She twisted some strands of hair and began pacing, following Carmen's path.

"You're making me nervous," he said.

"They were supposed to call and let us know they were here," she repeated, as if saying it again would reassure her. "We can't go off and buy a hundred thousand dollars' worth of heroin on our own. We could get killed! We don't even know where to go! How can they protect us if we don't even know where to go? These are bad people we're dealing with. They could—"

"Jesus, keep your voice down, will you? We are not going anywhere. I'm going." He patted the case lovingly. "I'll take care of you," he said.

She didn't like the sound of that, not at all.

* * * * *

The silver-gray Mark VII cruised the streets like a stainless-steel shark. Delmo managed to find a parking spot on Parsons Boulevard and he pulled in carefully. He fished a buck's worth of quarters from his pocket and dropped them into the meter. That would give him an hour and twenty minutes; surely that would be enough time. Zipping his suede bomber jacket against the oncoming October chill, he fastened the straps of his fine leather driving gloves, which would soon become shooting gloves. He couldn't afford a slip. Opening the passenger side door, he reached in and grabbed the bag securely, squeezing the remote key fob and locking the Mark VII with a little bbwweep. The crowd was bustling on Parsons Boulevard, most of it moving north toward the subway station. He looked at his watch, seeing that he needed to get moving. Walking the half block to the corner at Jamaica Avenue, he suddenly spotted Billy Gatton leaning against a lamppost watching the lot in front of Fairchild MotorCars, which was still half a block down the street. Delmo approached from the side, his eyes blazing with irritation. "What the fuck you doin' out here?" he asked, noting Billy's swollen face. "You got a car ready?"

Not answering the question, Billy turned to Delmo and got real close, opening his jacket just enough for Delmo to see the handle of the Smith & Wesson .357 tucked into his belt. "I wanna do the kid," he said, his breath stinking of cigarettes and dried blood.

There was no time to argue, thought Delmo. If Billy got in the way, well, that would be his last mistake, wouldn't it? "Let's roll," he ordered. The light changed and they crossed the street, while behind them a black limo took the turn toward Fairchild MotorCars.

* * * * *

Rita did a U-turn in the middle of Jamaica Avenue, oblivious to the horns and middle fingers that popped off at her. She barreled past the dealership and made another U-turn amid more shouts and gestures, stopping in front of Rufus King Park. Morena stepped toward the car, his dark pants and trench coat blending him into the darkening surroundings. He fell into the passenger seat. "What's the story?"

"We don't have any backup," she said, her face laced with confusion.

"What! What the—"

"I have no clue. I just got off with Grimstead, and he didn't even know anything was going down."

"But Delgado—"

"Grimstead's going to talk to Delgado right now. He was pretty hot."

"So we're hung out here to dry." Morena shook his head in disbelief.

"Grimstead said he's gonna try and get some black and whites into the area."

"Lot of good that'll do us. Probably blow the whole thing. I'm sure they've got spotters around. We might think about getting some support from Miller's precinct."

"You think there's a chance of that happening?"

"About as much as a snowball surviving hell, probably."

Rita looked at her watch. "It might be too late anyway. By the time they got a team down here the whole thing could be over."

Morena wagged his head in disgust. "Goddamned department."

"What do you wanna do?"

Opening the door, Morena said, "Stash the car. I'm sure they can spot a cop car a mile away. Try up on Parsons. I'll wait for you down the street in front of The Pizza Palace. We can watch who goes in and out from there."

"We gonna try this alone?" Rita asked. Morena moved off without answering.

Rita did yet another U-turn, not giving a second thought to the black limo that passed her going in the opposite direction as she approached the light at Jamaica Avenue and Parsons Boulevard. If she'd looked in her rearview, she'd have realized that the limo had turned into the barbed-wired gate to Fairchild MotorCars. She also didn't realize that Billy Gatton and Delvin Maurice Kennedy had just walked past that corner heading toward the dealership. She parked in a no-parking zone across the street from a new steel-gray Lincoln Mark VII, got out, and bounced impatiently on the balls of her feet while a line of traffic passed on Parsons Boulevard, which included a yellow Corvette.

Chapter 85... Let's Do Lunch

He didn't know which was worse: the fact that Chita was acting like a raving lunatic, or the fact that nothing was going as planned. The dealership was even busy, for God's sake. There were maggots—customers, that is—all over the damned place. Friday afternoons were usually Miller Time for the salesmen, and the guys normally kicked back and hung out by the fence grading chicks as they made their final trek of the workweek past the gates. Not so this Friday. Carmen signed off on another sales order and handed it back to the salesman; fourth deal that afternoon; things were rockin'; he was a sales machine. Chita finally stopped pacing, settling into one of the chairs in front of the desk and crossing her legs, pumping the top one furiously. Carmen was in the other chair carefully examining her thighs when the phone rang. Both of them jumped like rabbits, and Chita reached it first.

"It's Rita!" she said quickly.

"Gimme the phone," he said quickly, snagging it like he was fielding a line drive. "Where the hell are you?"

"Down the street in front of The Pizza Palace. Who's in the limo that just pulled in?"

"What limo?" Carmen's eyes shot to the plate glass windows. Outside, a long black Cadillac was getting ready to dump its load, its doors flying open as if it were getting ready to fly. The first one out was a tall, distinguished looking guy, ruggedly proportioned. "Who the hell...?" Carmen said, not recognizing him. The guy reached back into the limo to assist someone, and a moment later out stepped the Queen Mother, who immediately assumed her normal regal posture. "Goddamn it," he cursed; he needed this now like he needed a second asshole.

Paul Barrons stepped from the other side of the car, and Carmen recognized him as the lawyer guy who'd been around a time or two inspecting this or that. He watched as Barrons reached back to help some tight-assed-looking chick in a short skirt who looked like she couldn't fart if she had to. She, in turn, bent over and helped some dorky guy climb out. "What the hell is this?" said Carmen, the phone still to his ear.

"Can you tell me what's going on?" Rita asked.

"Beats the hell out of me."

"Did you call the number?"

"What number?"

"The phone number Hollie gave you. You were supposed to call the number when you got the money together. Did you get it?"

"Yeah, just a few minutes ago." A sudden wave of realization moved over him. He'd forgotten all about it. "I.... I don't have the number." Shit, he thought, it was all falling apart. "Gimme the number. I'll call now."

Rita read it to him. The parade of perfumed white folks walked in like they owned the place, which they did, or would. Carmen dialed the number. Someone answered, and he recognized the voice immediately. It was Big Tony. "This is the Kid," he said.

"About fuckin' time," said Big Tony, pleasant as ever. "You were supposed to call over an hour ago. You got the fuckin' money, kid?"

Carmen thought he heard some big band music in the background. The tune sounded familiar. "Yeah," he snapped into the phone. "I got the fuckin' money!" He looked up. The Queen Mother was towering over him there in the tower.

"Mind if I use the fuckin' phone?" she asked sarcastically, mimicking his tone.

Carmen looked past the Queen Mother, down the six steps to the showroom floor. The people from the limo were all looking at him. Past them, the salesmen were looking at him, each of them wondering what the fuck was happening. He looked to the left. Chita was still looking at him as well, and he couldn't help but see that the Queen Mother was still looking down at him while he was looking around. Tanisha came waltzing across the showroom floor, on display, and climbed the six steps, announcing that Delmo was there, and that he, Delmo, was looking for him, Carmen. Carmen looked up. Delmo was waiting just inside the entrance, with Billy right behind him, and both of them were looking at him from across the showroom floor.

Big Tony's big voice growled from the phone. "Delmo will be around with the merchandise. He'll let you have it as soon as he puts his hands on the money." Outside, behind the limo, Patty's yellow Corvette tooled up, and Patty marched from the car like she owned the place, which she did, completely ignoring Billy and Delmo as she walked past them. "Got it?" said Big Tony.

"Right. Got it," Carmen replied. Again, he thought he detected music. Tanisha was looking at him, waiting for an answer.

Patty marched to the base of the tower. "I'm back," she announced, looking not at her mother, but at Carmen.

He saw Delmo walking between the cars toward the tower, his arm around a large brown grocery bag. That had to be the merchandise, Carmen surmised. Delmo stopped at the base of the tower and stared expectantly, his eyes shifting on from face to face, seemingly counting people off. His eyes traveled full circle and settled back on Carmen. Back behind them all, Billy Gatton's eyes burned in their sockets, and Carmen felt his glare.

"Hey kid, you there?" Big Tony called from the phone.

"Yeah... yeah, I'm here," Carmen replied, and he hung up. He looked from face to face, to every corner of the tower, to every chair and every desk in the showroom. He looked over to the up desk, and to the receptionist's area, and every place he looked he saw eyes staring back at him. Even the cars seemed to be staring at him, their grills seemingly curled into taunting smirks. He, Carmen Madrid, Kid Madrid, was at the center of the universe, and he had no clue as to what to do next. He looked at his watch.

"I'm going to lunch," he announced.

"Lunch?" said the Queen Mother.

"Yeah, lunch. I ain't had nothin' to eat all day and my stomach is grumblin' all the way down to my ass. You guys need me for anything?"

"No," the Queen Mother answered, looking at Paul Barrons, who shrugged. "We can do what we need to do without you. Who are you anyway?"

"Oooo... kay... fine," said Carmen, somewhat chagrined. With that, he grabbed the attaché case and moved off the tower past the Queen Mother, past Chita, past Patty, and past Delmo to the front door, where Billy glared at him with vengeance on his face. "Nice teeth," Carmen said in a low breath, not knowing that five seconds later Delmo prevented Billy from yanking the Smith & Wesson from his belt.

Where the hell is he going with that money? Chita said to herself.

Chapter 86... Just Like That

Carmen ordered a gyro, not sure that he could even get it down. He reached into his pocket and realized he only had a couple of bucks. I'll fix that, he thought, and he went back to one of the wobbly tables and looked around to make sure no one was looking. He turned and tried to hide the attaché case with his body as much as possible, popping it open and pulling a ten from one of the bundles. The stacks hypnotized him. What he could do with a hundred thousand bucks. He determined quite positively that he could work his whole life and never save up that much, not ever, and there it was, right there in front of him. It would be so easy to just walk up Parsons Boulevard, hop on the F train and just vamoose, so long, sayonara, AMF. Who would know? And even if someone figured it out, how would they find him? He could get off at Penn Station, hop a train, pay cash, get off, rent a place, cash again, and get a job selling cars somewhere else, anywhere, another state even. Who cared? He'd find a job, just like that, no sweat. There was nothing holding him back—except his parents. They'd almost lost their house because of him, and they didn't even know it. He did, however. His emotions were stretching and bending like a rubber band. Maybe he could use the hundred grand to buy them a new house. Or maybe—

"Don't you think you should close that?" It was Rita.

"Jesus!" He almost jumped out of his skin. "Where the hell have you been? I thought the plan was that you were supposed to be outside the dealership, and I was supposed to signal from the tower when I made the buy."

Morena reached over and snapped the lid down on the case. "The plan has changed."

"What do you mean, the plan has changed?"

"Does anyone know you're here?"

"Everyone knows I'm here."

"Great," said Rita, her tone less than comforting. "What the hell's going on in there? And who are all those people? It's like Grand Central in there."

"I have no idea what's going on."

"Did you call the number?"

Rita was almost as nervous as he was. "Yeah, I called."

"And?"

"And I'm supposed to make the buy from Delmo. He's waiting for me back at the showroom."

"And he's got the Stingray?"

"I guess he's got it. He's got a big paper bag with him and he seems to be holding on to it pretty tight."

Morena looked at Rita. "I don't feel too good about this. There are too many people floating around. Something could go wrong."

"Wrong! What could go wrong? You said you'd have twenty guys within spitting distance when it came down, plus someone inside. Which of those customers are cops?"

"None of them," Morena said casually, as if doing so would lessen Carmen's panic. It didn't work.

"What! Where are they?"

"Nowhere. It's just us."

Carmen sank into a chair and put his head into his hands. "This cannot be for real."

"We've got to change the location," said Rita.

"I agree," said Morena.

"Oh, great. You agree. Well, that makes me feel just so much better. Now that you agree, maybe it won't hurt so much if something goes wrong and I get my balls shot off."

Ignoring him, Morena said, "We've got to get them away from the dealership." He turned to Carmen. "You've got to get them out of there."

"I heard you the first time."

"Then do it."

"How?"

"Does Delmo know you have the money?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. I haven't talked to him, and I've had the case with me the whole time."

"And he's seen the case?"

"I passed him and Billy with it on the way out."

"Then he probably figures the money's in there. Go back and tell him there's been a change in plans. Tell him there are too many people around. He should understand that."

"And where will I take him?" Without waiting for an answer Carmen muttered, supposedly to himself, "I'm gonna die. I just know it. We're all gonna die, and we're gonna end up deader than shit."

Rita grabbed him by the shoulders. "Carmen! You're not gonna die! Now...." She shook him into concentration. "Remember..." She did Patty's double-armed salute. "...Watch, learn, and listen. You got it? You've got to do the right thing here, Carmen."

He looked at her, his dark eyes glazed with confusion and anger. "And what am I supposed to do? Just take off with the money?"

Rita and Morena both did a double take.

"Frankly," said Morena, "that's not a bad idea."

"You want me to just take off... with the money... just like that."

"Yeah," said Morena, "Just like that."

"Maybe I will," Carmen sneered. "And maybe you'll never see my sorry ass again."

Mercilessly, Morena said, "It's your life, kid. You wanna fuck it up, that's up to you."

"Screw you!"

It bounced off Morena. "If they wanna do the deal bad enough, they'll follow you. Hell, it might even flush out some of their people, if they're around." Trying to be as encouraging as he could, Morena added, "We'll be right behind you. Just be sure we see which car you take so we can spot you if we lose you."

"What d'ya mean, lose me!"

Morena pulled him up from his chair and shoved the attaché case into his chest. "Have some balls, Kid Madrid, and you won't live to regret it—if you live."

"Hey, what about your gyro?" the counter man yelled at Carmen as the threesome hustled past.

"Stuff it," Rita called over her shoulder.

Chapter 87... Second Gear

Making the short walk back to the dealership, Carmen felt like he did as a youngster when he went to confession at Saint Bartholomew's on Saturday afternoons. The guilt was there, even though he hadn't done anything wrong in the seven days since his last confession when his soul was purged of all the other sins he hadn't committed. The hundred thousand in his hand was comforting, like confession, but it was heavy, like guilt.

He dodged a couple of whining drunks and moved cautiously through the sliding barbed-wired gates. Someone had parked a car just inside the gates, a car that hadn't been there when he'd left for his supposed lunch. Now, it defiantly blocked the In lane, across which two armies of cars faced each other. It had a City of New York emblem on it, he noted. Slowly, he made his way into the showroom. Everyone's back was turned, and some fat guy he'd never seen before was on the tower, his arms spread as if he were a priest giving a benediction. Delmo was nowhere to be seen. Billy too had disappeared.

"And so," said James Douglas Macfarlane, "I believe we can bring a new beginning to Jamaica, and provide new hope, new horizons, new opportunities, and job security for the poor people of Queens."

Christ, didn't that sound good, thought Carmen, guessing he was one of those poor people. Obviously, this guy drove the City of New York car, sounded like a politician of some sort; he wasn't the mayor, though; Ed Koch was the mayor. Who was this guy?

"... And, we'd like to thank the people from Allied Foods for having the foresight, the business savvy, and the fortitude to establish a manufacturing facility on the avenue, right in the heart of this historic neighborhood."

"If we can get the zoning passed," said Frederick Kenyon, tossing forth an amusing ad-lib. Ha, ha, chuckle, chuckle.

"Well, Mister Kenyon, I don't think we'll have any trouble with that little detail. Will we, Chester?"

The geek next to Miss Tight-ass blushed six shades of pink. Carmen looked at the rest of the gathered. Boy, they were certainly stuffed full of themselves, especially that lawyer guy, but Patty looked ready to vomit. He made his way to the tower, still not quite sure what was happening. He found out with the next couple of sentences.

"And now," the fat guy continued, "I'd like to introduce the matriarch of Fairchild MotorCars, the inimitable Shannon Fairchild."

The Queen Mother got up and took the fat guy's place, and she began with her usual air of streetwise sophistication. "Matriarch?" she said. "I've been called a big mother before, but never...." Chuckle, burble, burble. "Seriously though, I'd like to thank all the people at Fairchild MotorCars who've worked so hard for so many years, and we wish you all the best of luck. We thought it best that you hear about the sale of Fairchild MotorCars directly from us, and we'd like you to celebrate with us at a farewell dinner, on the dealership, of course... yadda, yadda, yadda."

That was it? The dealership was sold? Just like that? This was his payback, thought Carmen, for keeping this place together, for carrying it on his fucking back while these rich pukes ate cucumber sandwiches? A fucking dinner? He shook his head in disgust. He was getting the same payback as every other poor schmuck who'd ever tried to get over on life, which meant he was taking it right up the ass. Why wasn't he surprised?

"I believe you and Mister Barrons have reserved a place for the celebration with our friends from Allied Foods, haven't you, Mister Macfarlane?" The Queen Mother's words floated indistinctly into Carmen's consciousness, and melted into the background chatter.

"Yes," said Macfarlane, proud as a fat peacock. "We have a place all to ourselves in Little Italy. It's at 216 Mott Street and everyone here is invited to attend."

216 Mott Street, thought Carmen: the address was already burned into his memory. He didn't get a chance to think about it further, however, as his attention, and everyone else's, was drawn to the Porsche that squealed into the lot with tires smoking, nicking a fender on the City of New York car as it did so. It fishtailed up the Out lane, diving to a screeching stop just inches from the windows. BOOM BOOM, TA TA BOOM, with mounds of quivering flesh, BOOM BOOM BOOM, TA BOOM, BOOM BOOM!!! right in front of the plate glass windows.

"Where is that bitch!" Holly cried as she blew through the entrance. Out of nowhere, Delmo and Billy came up behind her. "There she is!" Holly screamed.

It was like one of those stories you hear about when someone gets mugged: a hundred bewildered people stand around and watch, but no one does a damned thing to stop it. In this situation, however, had anyone tried, they would have been dead meat. Holly Hollow, movie star, boom boom boomed, ta ta boomed several steps into the showroom, pulled a silver revolver with a barrel the size of Sonny Olanzo's dick, and blew a chunk of Tanisha's thigh muscle right off her leg.

Screams erupted in a single cacophonous blast, and the perfumed and unperfumed alike scattered like dropped ball bearings. Carmen's first instinct was to hide, and at first he did by ducking down behind a white Jag, the thought coming to him that he'd been in a situation involving a white Jag, a passionate woman, and a gun once before, but that was different. He didn't have a hundred thousand dollars in his arms that time. He peeked from behind the Jag, his eyes landing on the prostrate body of young Tanisha lying deserted on the showroom floor, the look of shock and loneliness carved on her face. Her leg was a mass of bloody flesh. For some inexplicable reason, in a flashing thought, he pictured her in old age and knew she'd be one of the poor and unwashed he saw often along the avenue.

He made a move toward her, but Holly was moving toward her as well—with the gun. For a second he thought that was it for poor Tanisha, but Delmo came dashing across the showroom floor, the paper bag still clutched tightly under his arm. He punched Holly soundly in the head and she collapsed instantly, the big-barreled revolver she was waving around clanking onto the tile floor and sliding underneath a blue Caprice Classic. Then, he reached into the bag and came out with a piece of hardware that looked like something from a Clint Eastwood movie. Wait a minute! There was no merchandise in that bag! There was no two kilos of Stingray!

Suddenly, there! At the entrance! It was Rita! And Morena right behind, both of them with guns drawn and fighting to get into the showroom as bodies pushed against them trying to escape. Suddenly, a burst of shots that sounded like a loud drum roll echoed off the walls, and Morena went down clutching his right arm, a splash of red immediately visible there. Another burst, and one of the plate glass showroom windows came crashing down in huge shards like guillotine blades. Delmo was shooting! At what? Still clutching the attaché case, Carmen tried to become part of the floor as he moved from behind the Jag. Delmo was standing in the middle of the showroom, pointing his miniature machine gun through the shattered window. Unbelievably, he was pointing at the limo, which was already moving backward as its doors were closing. It made a backward dash through the gates, barely avoiding the cars on the avenue that miraculously came to a screeching halt. Its nose swung around in a sweeping ninety-degree turn, and in one fluid move the long Cadillac heaved forward, smoke flying off the back tires. Delmo let go with a burst of fire at the limo, and Carmen saw a body go down out near the street; it was the fat guy, who'd been running for the City of New York car. Seemingly unfazed, Delmo stood poised, looking for something, or someone. Who? What?

Waiting until Delmo was facing away from him, Carmen scooted back underneath yet another vehicle. It was the Caprice, and there, right in front of him, was Holly's gun. He grabbed it. Unexpectedly, he heard the sound of something clanking on the tile floor. Peeking underneath the car, he spotted the long clip that Delmo had just ejected from his machine pistol. Putting as much of the Caprice between him and Delmo as possible, he barely peeked around the back bumper while Delmo shoved another clip into his weapon. What now? The question screamed inside Carmen's head as he glanced through the shattered window and saw Patty—and Chita two steps behind her—running toward Patty's yellow Corvette out near the gates. Delmo was ready, and he pointed his weapon... at them!

Reaching up over the hood of the car, Carmen fired wildly, the tremendous kick of the revolver almost causing it to fly out of his hand. The shot missed, and Delmo turned just as another different blast rang out, louder and deeper than the ones from his own gun. The windshield on the Caprice shattered into a million glass crumbs, and Carmen threw himself toward the parts lounge, still clutching the attaché case. Another deep boom echoed, and a bullet plunked right through the aluminum wheel from which he'd just flung himself. It was obvious that the last two shots didn't come from Delmo, and Carmen peeked around the corner, spotting the source of the fire. It was Billy! Delmo and Billy were trying to kill them all!

Instinctively, Carmen flung himself through the door to the parts lounge, banging right into a couple of mechanics who must have been out back during the festivities and were now heading up to see what had been causing all the commotion over the last fifty seconds.

"Hey Kid, what the hell is—"

"Gimme a car!" Carmen screamed, wild-eyed. Seeing the gun, one of the mechanics tossed him a set of keys and, backing off with his hands up, pointed to the souped-up Starsky and Hutch Gran Torino parked in one of the service bays. Seconds later, Carmen was gunning the engine and slinging the car through the back lot onto Archer Avenue. Not knowing what to expect and hoping this wasn't how he was going to die, he ducked down as low as possible and tugged furiously on the steering wheel, forcing the bucking, lurching car around the block to the corner of Jamaica Avenue and Sutphin Boulevard. Grinding gears as the seat was too far back for him to fully depress the clutch pedal, he swung the car hard left, and there, right on the avenue was Patty's yellow Corvette, standing out like a beacon. He could see the tail end of the limo parked on the side street nearby, a couple of bullet holes clearly visible in the rear quarter panel. He squealed to a stop and the limo took off immediately. Seeing him, Chita hopped from the Corvette, but kept her distance. Patty was in a phone booth nearby in front of El Sombrero restaurant.

"Was anyone hurt?" Carmen yelled, seeing that Chita wasn't getting anywhere near him.

"I don't know," she yelled back. "Patty is calling 9-1-1 now."

Her voice was trembling, and her mascara was running down her face, but comforting Chita was the last thing on his mind now. "They're gonna be coming after us!" he shouted. "We gotta get these cars off the street!" Acting on instinct, he jumped into the Corvette and pulled it into the small parking lot behind the restaurant. Then, he sprinted back and did the same with the Gran Torino. Sprinting back the length of the building, he peered down the avenue, hiding his body as if he expected someone to be right there around the corner.

What he saw was a flashing blue light and the flashing headlights of a police car barreling toward them. He jumped into the roadway, arms waving. The car, a brown Ford, nose-dived violently. It was Rita, with Morena in the passenger seat holding his arm, a blood-soaked handkerchief dripping red on his fingers.

"Are you all right?" she called from the window.

"Yeah," Carmen called back, short answer.

"What about the others?"

"Not sure. The folks in the limo took off. Chita and Patty are over there." He thumbed over his shoulder.

Drivers were honking, and Rita pulled the Crown Vic to the curb. She jumped from the car. "How did you get here?" she asked, her face flushed as red as her wiry locks and her clothes stained with blood.

"I pulled our cars off the avenue in case they decided to come after us." We need to get the hell out of here, he was about to say, when he spotted Patty standing defiantly in the middle of the sidewalk, gazing up the block as passersby made a wide circle around her.

"Here comes a car!" she shouted, and although there were dozens of cars on the avenue, everyone knew what she meant. Rita pulled her gun, and Morena came up behind, carrying a twelve-gauge pump shotgun. He cocked it with one powerful jerk of his good arm. They all scooted off the sidewalk and hid behind the corner of the building.

They could hear the engine's whine well before the car reached the corner, the rising and falling of its high-pitched drone changing as the car wheeled recklessly in and out of traffic. With horns popping off all the way back along the avenue, the car blasted past like a rocket, the breeze powerful in its wake. Carmen shielded his eyes from the flying grit, but recognized Billy Gatton's form hunched over the wheel of the 288-horsepower Porsche.

"That's Andy's Porsche," Rita called out. "I know it." She looked at Morena and started back to the Crown Vic when Patty shouted from the sidewalk for a second time.

"Here comes another one." Sure enough, seconds later a Lincoln Mark VII blew past, its sleek, silver-gray body skimming the ground like an attacking leopard.

"Morena, you coming?" Rita called. "It's time to get this thing done."

"We'll never catch them," Morena called back. "We need to call in and put out and all-points."

Not arguing, Rita said, "Damn it! If we only knew where they were going!"

Then, the words that suddenly became vivid again in Carmen's memory only minutes earlier, the words that answered that question, and the question Billy Gatton had asked the night he, Carmen, had been beaten senseless at the dealership gates, those words surfaced in his head like a suddenly inflated buoy marker rising out of the wreckage of his self-pity. Where's the club? Billy had asked. Carmen marched silently to his car.

"Where are you going?" Rita called after him.

"It's like you said," Carmen replied. "Maybe just taking off isn't such a bad idea." He got in and revved the '76 Gran Torino's incredibly powerful motor, ignoring the questioning stares from the others gathered on the corner. 457 horses roared to life. Making sure the attaché case was safe and sound on the floor in front of the passenger seat, he adjusted the side mirror, then the rearview, and finally he adjusted the black Naugahyde bucket seat. Then, he strapped his seat belt and pulled it tight. Grasping the T-shaped knob on the Hurst shifter, he pushed the clutch and popped the accelerator once, feeling the vibrations and the irregular gurgle as the massive big block, customized V-8, which had been bored and stroked to beyond its original 460-cubic-inches, sucked down fuel through dual Holly four-barrel carburetors. Slamming the car into first, he popped the clutch and the glass pack mufflers roared like battling lions, while the super-wide, eighteen-inch rear tires squealed in agony as rubber burned off in caustic white clouds. He squealed onto Jamaica Avenue, the acceleration pinning him to his seat, and the car hit sixty just as he shifted out of second gear.

Rita and Morena walked over to the police-issue Ford, indistinct save the police package heavy-duty suspension and 5.8-liter V-8 under the hood, puny when compared to the Gran Torino. They strapped themselves in securely.

Patty and Chita not so calmly walked to Patty's Corvette, and Patty ignited the powerful 5.7-liter engine. The throaty exhausts fumed and the motor purred smoothly, camouflaging the power of the Corvette's 230 horses and 330 pound-feet of torque.

"Do you think he's taking off with that money?" Chita asked, her distrust apparent.

Patty looked at her, but didn't answer. "You need to fasten your seat belt," she said.

Chapter 88... To The Edge of Death

The guardrails along the Van Wyck Expressway passed like fan blades, a blur of motion in the side windows. Carmen swerved wildly in and out of traffic, easily outrunning the last asshole in the dinky 5.0-liter Mustang who tried to keep up with him. By the time the other drivers pounded their horns, the Torino was already out of earshot. The big revolver bounced and slid on the Naugahyde passenger seat, so Carmen wedged it between the seat and the console to keep track of it. The tachometer pointed continuously to numbers between the 5,000 and 8,000, while the speedometer needle vibrated in the red zone. He covered the six or so miles between Jamaica Avenue and Rockaway Boulevard in a little less than three-and-a-half minutes, and it would have been less had it not been for the stubborn dickhead in the Dodge Dart who refused to move from the left lane. A little persuasion did the trick—Carmen waved the gun menacingly out his window—and the Dart immediately swerved to the right. Carmen kicked the Torino into third, flooring it for all it was worth. At first, his upper body heaved forward with the abrupt downshift, then it shot back into the seat as the massive torque slung the car forward, laying a two foot patch on the pavement at eighty miles an hour.

"C'mon baby," he purred, actually touching the dashboard. Concentrating on what was in front of him, he almost missed the exit sign that read: Belt Parkway, Brooklyn, 1 Mile. He stood on the brakes with both feet in order to slow to a manageable sixty, and took the exit. As it was, he thought he might have grazed the barriers as the centrifugal force kept the Torino's back end outside of where it should have been. A little less gleam on that chrome, he thought. He tromped the accelerator again and hit the merge lane, which at that speed seemed to be all of three feet long. Delirious on adrenaline, he gripped the black wheel with white knuckles, daring only an occasional glance into the rearview. Things were coming up too fast. When he finally dared to look, he was shocked to see Patty's Corvette not far behind him. It can't be, he thought, and he glanced down for a split second, just long enough to barely absorb the numbers on the speedometer. She's crazy as shit, he said to himself, thinking, of course, that he was perfectly sane to be flying along at close to ninety. Patty had to be hitting a hundred, fishtailing in and out of traffic and gaining on him. He wondered if the Torino was faster, and didn't know if he had the guts to find out. He did have the guts to find those bastards, however, or, more precisely, that bastard Billy, and it wasn't going to be pretty when he did. He just had to get there first.

The sound of sirens leaked in above the engine roar and the whistling wind, and blue and red flicks of light speckled his side view mirror. There seemed to be hundreds of them, and he speculated on whether Rita and Hector were back there too. He thought he'd lost them long ago, their pig of a cop car nowhere near strong enough to keep up with the Torino. He didn't speculate for long, however. One didn't have a lot of time for speculation while cutting across three lanes of traffic with barely more than a foot of clearance between cars.

Once again he detected a yellow flash, this time from his side mirror. He glanced into it, catching a glimpse—for everything was a glimpse, and then a reaction—of two heads in the Corvette. Patty and Chita must still be together, he figured, and he pictured Chita in the passenger seat, her face frozen in terror. Then there, up ahead, across all three lanes, three cars traveling abreast, probably doing within one mile an hour of each other. There was nowhere to go... but there was. Carmen slowed to a mere seventy, and there, between the two totally oblivious shitheads side by side in front of him, was a sliver of daylight. He dropped the Torino down into third, and the tach needle jumped to 7,000 rpm. He hung there, edging closer and closer to the bumper in front of him.

"Look in your mirror!" he screamed at the top of his lungs as he pounded the horn, but there was no horn. "Goddamn it! Look in your goddamned mirror!" But, they didn't hear him. Nobody heard him, and nobody saw him. "Fine!" he bellowed, and he edged the Torino closer, and closer to the cars in front of him, just a couple of yards away. If they even tap the brakes, he thought, he's road kill. Then, ever so slightly, he jigged the wheel to the right, just an inch, just enough to let the front of the Torino creep toward the line. Then, he jagged it to the left, the lines shooting under his side view mirror in a continuous ribbon of white. He was boxed in, nowhere to go. Then, suddenly, a wedge of daylight, there on the right, barely wide enough for a shoebox, never mind a two-ton speed wagon. He twisted the wheel quickly, and put the nose of the Torino through the opening. Gunning the engine, he sent the car screaming through, almost burying the needles on both gauges in a phenomenal burst of speed. He caught a cloud of dust in the rearview, and pangs of alarm shot through him as he figured he'd just sent someone to the Pearly Gates. Then, just as quickly, relief flooded in as the yellow Corvette swerved violently back into traffic from a short burst through the emergency lane. "Just like threading a needle," he said to himself. The blips of flashing light came to a sudden slowdown behind the moving roadblock, which was moving at a piddly-assed sixty. Temporarily, at least, only one car was chasing after him. Only one car could possibly get in the way of where he had to go.

Suddenly, it was there. Actually, they were there, just ahead of him, weaving casually in and out of traffic. In front was the low, silver-gray Lincoln Mark VII, followed by the smaller, stubby Porsche 928. It was time. Carmen pulled the Torino in behind Billy and gave a little push on the gas, sending his front bumper closer and closer to the rear bumper of the Porsche. Another push on the gas, a drop down to third gear, another short push; he was within a yard. Just a little more gas, and he'd send the bastard to hell. "Just another drop, baby," he said lovingly. "Just another hundred revs." Then, suddenly, the Porsche pulled away. Billy must have seen him and floored the Porsche, sending dual clouds of lubricated black smoke spewing into Carmen's windshield. The smell of scorched carbon and unburned gas penetrated his sinuses as he pulled in behind the Lincoln this time, but Billy's sudden departure down the highway alerted Delmo, who stared into his rearview mirror. Then, Delmo's head moved to the left as he looked into the Lincoln's side view. Carmen did the same, for only a split second, but it was enough for him to notice a yellow fender of Patty's Corvette in his own side view. Patty pulled up alongside at eighty miles an hour, and pointed to Delmo's car.

I'll take that one, she said in sign language, pointing back and forth between the Lincoln and herself. You take the Porsche.

Somehow, Carmen knew exactly what she'd said. Poor Chita, he thought. He backed off just a hair and let Patty pull in front of him. She edged closer to the Lincoln, and the Lincoln pulled away. She edged closer again, and it pulled away again. Then, at somewhere around ninety miles an hour, Patty pulled out and screamed up to the left side of the Lincoln. Closer and closer she edged, one more inch, then another, and the Lincoln darted and moved as she did. She nudged another inch, then another, until suddenly, she slammed on the brakes as she almost back-ended a pickup truck. The Corvette sling-shotted around the pickup like it was standing still, and with her engine whining at the brink of disintegration, Patty pulled even with the Lincoln again. Just as she did, Delmo's window came down, and the barrel of the machine pistol poked through. Delmo should have been paying better attention to the road, however. He never saw the cones that marked the beginning of the construction zone, nor did he see the concrete barrier as the Lincoln slammed into it, pulverizing itself, sending shrapnel into the atmosphere and the engine compartment into his chest. He was crushed like a corn flake.

It was time, again; time to take care of Billy. "One more time, baby," Carmen purred. By now, anything under ninety seemed slow. He'd lost sight of the Porsche. He cruised along, traffic parting in front of him like the Red Sea: one to the right, one to the left; a couple of cars pulled off the highway completely. "Thank you," he said graciously as he passed Coney Island, slinging the car in and out of lanes at about eighty. Suddenly, there it was, doing about the same speed. The exhaust was blowing thick, and the air was rushing over its spoiler, forcing the back end down low and providing traction to the hot tires.

Carmen came up behind, and the Porsche swerved. Billy was hip to his game. He tried it again, and again the Porsche hopped like a bunny to another lane. He tried to follow, but the back end of the Torino sailed wildly from side to side and he was barely able to keep control. The Porsche was just too nimble.

He backed off and waited for traffic to clear, thinking he saw confusion in Billy's eyes as they glanced back at him. Then, a blast of black smoke and the Porsche began to pull away. Ca-thump, ca-thump, ca-thump: the Torino almost became airborne as it bounced wildly over some wide, uneven pavement joints.

"It's the moment of truth," Carmen said aloud to the car, and to himself. "It's time to get what I want." He picked his spot as he bounced furiously in his seat. The Porsche was still within sight, but pulling away fast. Jumping in and out of lanes, he repositioned himself in the seat and regripped the wheel, stiff-armed, flooring the Torino. He kept it there, and watched the numbers on the speedometer: 90, 95, 100—the engine roared in his ears as the car ate pavement. The scenery blurred, 105, 110... the speedometer only went up to 120, and the car was still accelerating. Faster and faster he went, accelerating to the edge of destruction. He was right behind it, swerving in, then out as the Porsche dodged death from behind, as well as from in front. Faster, a smoky squeal to the right, one mistake and it would be over. Closer, closer, boxed in again, and then... a straightaway, a short one at that speed. There was no more travel on the accelerator, balls to the walls. Gaining, gaining, then, suddenly, he blew by the Porsche, passing it at somewhere near 120 mph.

Billy anticipated Carmen's swerve, but he didn't anticipate Carmen's brake lights as the Torino skidded 250 feet to a dead stop in 2.9 seconds. He also didn't anticipate Carmen coming out of the cloud of white smoke and walking shakily toward the Porsche. Dazed, the last thing Billy didn't anticipate, just as he raised his .357 magnum, was the possibility that Carmen could get off a faster and better shot—a fact evidenced by the bullet that shattered the Porsche's windshield and went right through the gap where his two front teeth had been.

Just as Billy slumped down in his seat, gurgling little bubbles of blood, Patty's yellow Corvette came screaming through the wreckage of strewn cars, followed unbelievably by the brown Crown Victoria, and an army of flashing blue and white police cars. Rita, Patty, and Morena sprinted up to the Porsche.

"Ya see," Patty said to Chita as she wobbled up to the group. "I told you he wasn't going to take off with the money."

Carmen handed the gun to Rita, reached into the breast pocket of his sharkskin suit, and wiped the sweat off his brow with a silk pocket square. Then, he reached into another pocket and pulled out his driving shades, flipping them open.

"Where the hell are you going?" Rita asked.

Carmen put on his driving shades and carefully rearranged the pocket square. "216 Mott Street," he said. "I gotta take care of some unfinished business."

Part Five... Growing Up

Chapter 89... Looking Back

So, it was 1985 when all that happened, and Jamaica, and every part of New York has changed a lot since then, for the better. Crime rates are down all over the city, and most of the old neighborhoods have come back in a big way. It's great. Back then, however, these places were sewers, depressing and dangerous places smothered by the crack epidemic that almost wiped out the city, places that I wanted to forget. I can't help but remember those places, however, like it was yesterday. I guess it'll always be that way.

I thought for sure I was gonna get arrested right there, you know, for shooting Billy through the skull and all, and I don't think I would've given a rat's ass if it happened, but it didn't. I mean, my brain was so fried I didn't care about anything. Between the anger and the adrenaline, I was stimulated to the point of numbness, kinda like when your foot falls asleep: needles of nothingness. I was on overload. I couldn't think of anything except finding Big Tony and climbing up on his big fat body and punching his fucking lights out. To me, that was all that mattered in the universe right then. I even flexed my fists a couple of times just to make sure my knuckles were sharp.

I turned and walked toward the Torino, not hearing the shouts from the police. At least that's what I was told later. Evidently, some of the cops yelled FREEZE, or some other stupid-assed cop shit, but I didn't freeze. Hell, I didn't even hear them. I opened the door to the Torino, my mind a mush of instinct and hate, and I felt a hand clamp down on my arm. It was Rita. Instinctively—like I said, I was on autopilot—I yanked my arm away and whirled toward her. Whatever she was going to say, I wasn't going to hear it. It was days later that I actually remembered the words.

"Carmen," she called, holding her hair back as the cars blew by on the other side of the highway. "You can't just walk away from this."

Is that what she thought? I asked myself. I looked at the rest of them, and I could see that the little seed of skepticism they obviously carried with them had turned into a goddamned bush. Was that what they all thought? That I was going chicken out? I got kinda pissed. I couldn't believe that's what was going through their heads, that I was all talk, just another sleazy salesman. It sure looked like it, however. Their faces had doubt written all over them. Patty stood defiant, looking self-righteous as hell, in my opinion. Watch, learn, and listen, my fucking ass, I thought. Chita was crying, or had been. Her cheeks were wet and shiny, and she looked away when our eyes met. To me, it looked as if she might have been shaking her head in disapproval. Looking like he was about to pass out, Morena was slumped against the Crown Vic, his entire arm and his pants soaked with blood. His face was stone, like he was waiting to see what I was going to do.

I don't know. Maybe it was my imagination; maybe it was my own insecurities, but I felt like they were looking down on me, as if they, in their high and mighty opinions, believed I didn't have it in me. Or, worse yet, that I never had it at all, it being balls, and integrity, and all that other shit that sometimes doesn't matter when you're just getting by. I mean, integrity was okay for rich folks who could afford to have it. To all us poor working schlumps who did what we had to do to avoid welfare, integrity sometimes didn't penetrate too far below the skin. I knew I wasn't all talk, though. I knew I wasn't just another salesman who'd sold his soul to the devil for a fleeting moment of success, but they had no clue about any of that. When I look back on it now, I can see their side of it, but that's what I felt there on that windy highway.

Yeah, well, all the axioms that had ever been preached to me came back at that moment: Look out for number one. What's in it for me? You gotta grab what you can, when you can. All of that went through my brain. I'd wanted to be the man for so long that I'd forgotten that in order to be the man, first you had to be a man. The trees. The trees did what they had to do to survive.

Responding to what Rita had just said, "I'm not walking away from anything," I said real asshole-like as I got into the Torino. "And you can all kiss my ass if that's what you think." That may not have been the best thing to have said right then. I mean, I think they were trying to help me, but I guess I was whacked out. I cranked the engine, slammed the car into first, and peeled down the highway. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw everything getting smaller and smaller as, once again, I approached warp speed. Only one car picked up after me; I guess it was Rita. I didn't give a shit that it did. Like I said, I was gonna do what I was gonna do, and that's all there was to that.

216 Mott Street. That's where the Queen Mother had said everyone was going to celebrate the sale of the dealership. I know, now, that it was the address of the Blue Moon Social Club, which was the restaurant headquarters of the Mafia guy behind Delmo's murderous rampage. I didn't know that the fat politician who'd bought the farm out on the lot—Macfarlane was his name—was hooked up with this Godfather somehow. All that came out in the papers later, but the reason I remembered the address was because it was stuck in my memory from the night I was beaten senseless. "Where's the club?" Billy had asked. It was Lawanda who'd answered, "216 Mott Street," and that's where I was headed. I put two and two together, and I pushed the Torino toward the Battery Tunnel and lower Manhattan, rehearsing in my head what I was going to do when I got there.

I thought about all those people who were in front of Patty's apartment that night on East 82nd Street. Lawanda been hired to make the hit on Patty, and Big Tony had done the hiring. It had to be. Yeah, well, it was Lawanda and Delmo and Billy who were all dead. Them, instead of me, and Patty, and the Queen Mother. I figured it was Big Tony that had set us all up, and Delmo had been picked to do the dirty work. So, the rumors about Delmo being a real bad dude had been true after all. Yeah, well, he was black hamburger now. 216 Mott Street. That's where Big Tony had to be. The spit in my mouth tasted like pesticide as I blasted through traffic toward the BQE. He had to be the one behind everything. I remembered Delmo's scabbed knuckles, and guessed that's how mine would look when I got done with Big Tony.

Then, the traffic stopped moving. There, in front of me was a sea of red taillights. "Damn!" I yelled as loud as I could, for I knew the hate inside would poison me if I didn't get it out. New York City traffic: it was amazing that I had traveled as far as I did without running into it, especially on a Friday night, but it was inevitable. I glanced into the rearview and spotted the single tiny blip of blue light way off, back in the distance. The Crown Vic, I figured. It would catch up soon enough. I looked around from lane to lane, but there was no place to escape the traffic. When it happened, it enveloped everything, like darkness.

In a way, it was good that I ran into that traffic. It gave me time to think. What I thought about was Big Tony's voice on the phone, and I speculated on how difficult it would be to rip out his voice box. Then, with the blue light approaching, I reviewed the phone conversation I'd had with him. There had been music in the background during that conversation. The tune played in my head, a single refrain repeating over and over like when the needle got stuck on an old record. Big band music. I'd heard that big band music before. Where had I heard it?

The blue light was closing in, approaching the sea of cars that were stopped dead on the pavement and boxing me in on all sides. Suddenly, it disappeared and I looked around for it in the rearview, but I didn't see it. I couldn't get to the emergency lane, which I thought of using, and I looked into the rearview again as the powerful Torino rumbled beneath me. My eyes traveled into the right sideview mirror, and there was the Crown Vic, creeping along in the emergency lane with the little blue light flashing, sniffing for the Torino. The car on my right moved about three feet. The car on the left moved about the same. The car in front didn't move at all. The Crown Vic was getting closer, only a few car lengths away now, and it would only be another minute before it found me. So, I got out and left the Torino right there in the road, keys and all, engine rumbling away. The attaché case with the hundred thousand? I took that with me.

I could see the surprised faces of the other drivers as I skipped between cars, and I knew they had to be thinking something like, You dumb son-of-a.... but I didn't give a shit. The horns went off like firecrackers, and I noticed the blue light lurch to a stop. I began running blindly. I wasn't sure where I'd end up, but it had to be somewhere. The voices of the other drivers echoed off the cement dividers. The exhaust in the air scraped the inside of my throat as I ran, but I ran, and ran, and ran, to wherever the road was leading me, like the road of life—or death.

"Hey, asshole. Where the hell you goin'?"

I ignored him. I ignored everything until I finally stopped running, for I thought surely my lungs were bleeding on the inside. I continued on, walking now, as quickly as I could. There had to be an exit ramp somewhere, and I was going to take it no matter where it led. I was moving faster than the cars. I looked behind me and saw no one following. I thought I'd lost the Crown Vic, and I felt good about that. I was safe. The attaché case felt heavy in my hand. I turned and continued onward, when suddenly, from between a smoking tractor-trailer and an old Bonneville that looked like it had sores on it, Rita stepped into the emergency lane. She wasn't more than ten car lengths away.

"What the...?" I said, and I noticed the blue light sparking on the other side of the highway. They'd simply driven down the other side and cut me off. Duh. Rita moved toward me, looking quite unsure of herself. It couldn't have had anything to do with the fact that I probably looked like a maniac, ya think? Her handgun was at her side, pointed down.

We were ten feet apart, and she asked, "Where are you going?" Her eyes almost glowed in the twilight descending on New York City. She didn't blink.

"Are you going to arrest me?"

She looked down at the case. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether or not you're going to help us bring down the rest of these guys."

I just watched her. The seed of doubt about me, which had grown into a bush of doubt, was now growing into a tree of doubt with each glance at the case. "Do you really think I was in with these guys all along?"

"Hard to tell, Carmen. Or is it Kid Madrid? You're a pretty good salesman."

I walked past her. I thought I heard her cock the hammer on her pistol as I did, but I didn't turn around to look. For once, I was going to be the one determining the road on which I would travel, and I did, on foot.

"Where are you going?" she called after me again, her voice firmer and more resolute.

I stopped, knowing she would end up at the same destination. "I already told you, 216 Mott Street," I said, and I walked some more.

An hour later, I got off the Crosstown GG local and walked across the platform to the 7 train, which just happened to be waiting at the Roosevelt Avenue/Jackson Heights stop in Queens. The 7 train went to Flushing. I never made it into Manhattan.

It smelled good outside Big Tony's condo when I got there, just as it had the previous times I'd been there, but I wasn't hungry. I heard some of that big band swing music coming through faintly. It was the same kind I'd heard before in the background, on the phone, or in his apartment, whenever. I realized halfway into my trip to 216 Mott Street that I'd heard that music when I made the phone call to let Big Tony know we'd gotten the hundred grand together. It was the same conversation where he'd said that Delmo was going to let me have it, it turning out not to be the load of Stingray the hundred grand was for, supposedly, but a volley from Delmo's machine pistol. Standing there outside Big Tony's door, I knew I'd been set up from the start. I knocked softly. You should've seen Big Tony's face when he opened the door.

Chapter 90... A Lifer

"Daddy, are you making whipped cream on your face again?"

This? This little Latin beauty with the ring-curled hair? This is my little sweetheart, Maria Sophia Teresa Madrid. Isn't she the cutest little thing? She's five, almost six now. Looks just like her mother, doesn't she? Acts like her too.

"Do you want to watch Daddy shave, sweetheart?"

"Daddy, you make funny faces."

"Carmen honey, you need to hurry or you'll be late for work."

Carmen honey. Now, where have we heard that before? "Yes, dear. Right away, dear." I've found out in the last year or so that it's just better to agree with her. I tried to fight it for the first three years after we were married, but believe me, it's easier to just go along.

"What time do we have to be at Rita's and Hector's tonight?" They started dating, you know, a few months after the trial, and have been ever since. Hell, they were together all the time anyhow. Wouldn't be surprised if they got married someday.

"Seven o'clock. You think you'll be able to get out of work on time?"

"I should be. Patty said she'd cover for me."

Yeah, Patty and I still work together. She took the money after the dealership was sold and opened another Fairchild MotorCars in Astoria. Our second dealership went up out on Long Island, and our third one opens in a couple of months out in Jersey. Me? I'm the GM at the one in Astoria, and I'm doing all right, if I do say so myself. That's right, I'm still in Queens; a lifer, I guess, probably die here, but hey, someone's gotta do it.

"Did you call my folks and tell them we're bringing Little Chita over tonight?" We call her Little Chita because, like I said, she looks just like her mother. Besides, she doesn't like Maria—too old-farty, her mother taught her to say.

"Yeah. Your mother is making paella."

"Paella? The kid's still in kindergarten."

"What can I say?"

"Daddy, can I sleep over at Grandma's and Grandpa's? I like sleeping at Grandma's and Grandpa's house."

"If it's okay with your mother, sweetheart."

Yeah, my folks finally got the house rebuilt. Those hundred thousand bucks came in pretty handy after all. No, I didn't steal it. I just sort of borrowed it for a while. Whatever you do, don't tell Chita. She still thinks it disappeared during all that stuff on the highway, and all. Patty knew I had it, though. She said she was going to get plenty when the dealership was sold, and to just pay it back when I could. I couldn't just let my parents live on the street, could I? And I certainly wasn't going to let them live with me forever. Jesus, can you imagine? Besides, Patty said, it was the least she could do, seeing as I saved her life and everything, and her mother's. That's right, saved her life. It came out later during the investigation that Delmo had intended to kill us all: Patty, Paul Barrons, the Queen Mother, and me.

Yes sir, it turned out to be quite the case, and quite the scandal, too. The papers are still talking about it. They call it the scandal that wouldn't die. It seems the money flowed a lot deeper and through more tributaries than just Macfarlane's office. You see, Big Tony rolled over like a hippo rolling down a mountain; named names, places, everything, and between Big Tony spilling his guts, and what they found in Macfarlane's office.... Well, I got it on the q.t. from Hector that they're gonna be knocking on a couple of other doors within the month. Can you believe it? He wouldn't tell me who it was, but told me to just keep reading the paper.

I think they're still looking for that Mafia guy. They never did catch him, you know. When Rita and Morena knocked on the door at 216 Mott Street that night, they were met with a rather rude greeting, if you know what I mean. From what Morena said at the trial, it seems Rita took out an old hood named Johnny Legs, and Morena took out two others who were inside despite having gotten shot in the arm, but they never did find the big cheese.

Sonny went to jail too—for a lousy year. All they could get him on was possession of stolen property, which, looking back, was all they could get him on, seeing as no one really actually knew what they were moving when they made those runs. I don't know if Holly is still in jail for blasting Tanisha in the leg. Shame. She never did that jiggle walk of hers the same way again, and I kind of feel responsible for that. I do know Big Tony is still in jail. Got eighteen years for racketeering. I hope the bastard is still eating baby food.

You see, somehow, he got busted up pretty bad. Someone banged him upside the head inside his apartment, smashed up his jaw pretty bad with a statue, or something. Heard he had a few broken ribs and some internal hemorrhaging, too. No one has any idea who did it, though. My hand still hurts when it rains.

"Carmen honey, can you please zip me up. I'm running late."

"You know, I still love the way you look in one of these nurse uniforms, only it needs to be a little shorter, and a little tighter, and there needs to be a big red cross—right there."

"And next you're going to tell me that you like those white stockings with the seams running up the back."

"With high heels."

"You're so pathetic."

