THE WHEEL spun too many times. They'd always be them- I'd always be me. Some cops went bad. I couldn't go good.
I stayed low to the ground for months, waiting for the Greyhound to deliver Belle's father. Didn't get a parking ticket, didn't bet on a horse. Lived like Gary Hart should have.
There was nothing else to wait for.
7
IT PLAYED the same way with Max too. He'd sit across from me, make the gesture for "Why?" I'd shrug my shoulders. Who knows? He never pushed it past that.
Mama knew why. Maybe she'd told Immaculata, I didn't know. But she'd never tell Max.
Only the white tapestry was in the window. I pulled into the alley behind the restaurant, just past the Chinese characters neatly marked on the wall. I didn't bother to lock the car.
I went through the back door, barely glancing at the collection of thugs pretending to be the kitchen staff. Took my table at the back.
Mama was saying goodbye to a customer at the front by the cash register. She didn't put her heart and soul into it- the customer had only bought food.
She came back to where I was sitting, waving her hand at the waiter. He knew what to do.
I got up as she approached. Thick glossy hair tied in a rigid bun at the back of her head, plum-colored sheath covering her from neck to ankles, same color nail polish and lipstick. Dignified, not sexy. Mama never got older.
I bowed to her by way of greeting. "Cops all gone?"
"They come back soon."
"I know."
"Something else happen. Soon enough. Police get tired easy."
"Yeah."
The waiter brought a steaming tureen of hot-and-sour soup. Mama filled my bowl first, then hers.
We ate the soup in silence. She filled my bowl again. I finished it. Shook my head no at her unasked question. The waiter took the bowls away.
I lit a smoke. "It's done," I told her.
"All finish now?"
"Yeah."
She bowed slightly. "Soon, be yourself again?"
I tried a smile, watching her face. She knew a three-dollar bill when she saw one.
"Max on his way."
I didn't say anything.
"Time to stop all this, Burke. Max your brother."
"You think I don't know that? It's not my fault. I did the right thing."
It didn't even feel right saying it.
I felt Max behind me. I didn't turn around. Lit a cigarette as Mama bowed to him. She went back to the front desk. He flowed into the booth across from me, watching my face the same way he had ever since he came back from Boston. Where Mama had sent him on a phony mission to clean up some problem she was supposed to be having with a street gang shaking down one of her joints.
Max the Silent doesn't speak. He can't. He was a freelance warrior until he met Mama. I met him in the jailhouse- he brought me to Mama when we got out. I took a fall that was part his years ago, when the wheels came off a sting we'd put together. I was there when he met his woman, Immaculata. His baby daughter, Flower, was named for another baby- a baby who never lived to grow up. A baby a chubby little blonde fought a death-duel to avenge. Flood was her name. She loved me and she went back to Japan.
I used to dream about her coming back.
I don't have any more dreams.
He didn't ask me today. The waiter brought him a bowl of fried rice and a pitcher of ice water. I watched him eat, smoking another cigarette. I wasn't hungry.
The waiter took the rice bowl away. I got up to split. To go nowhere. Max pushed his hand toward the tabletop, like there was a delicate bubble of air he was holding to the surface. Stay for a minute.
I sat back in the booth. He pointed to the empty place next to me.
Floated his hands before me into a kung fu dragon-master opening. I nodded my head. Yeah, a karate-fighter. So?
He pointed a finger to himself- weaved his own hands in an answering gesture.
I nodded again. The man wanted Max. Wanted to challenge him to a duel.
He pointed at me again, made a gesture of dismissal. He flipped a chopstick between his fingers- snapped it like a dry twig. Right again. I'm no karateka- no match for a master.
Max took a sip of water, his eyes pinning me. He waved his hands again, another challenge. Shook his head no. Held up his hand like a traffic cop. Shrugged his shoulders. No big deal. Max the Silent didn't fight for fun. He'd just walk away. It wasn't an ego thing.
He spread his hands in the "why?" gesture again.
It didn't matter anymore.
I jerked a thumb to my right, indicating the challenger. I pointed at Max, put my hands on the table in front of him, two fingers down from each fist. Men walking. I had them approach each other. Stop. One finger pawing the air before the other. Turned one hand and had the fingers walk away. Felt his eyes on my hands. I pulled one hand off the table, flattened it into a wall, slammed it down in front of the two fingers walking away. No. You can't walk away. His eyes lifted to meet mine. I took the hand that had been a wall and brought it to my chest. Made the sign of rocking a baby. Pointed to him. Your baby. I lifted one hand gently to where the baby's head would have been, watching my brother's face. Held his eyes as I slashed a finger across the child's throat. The karateka's ante in the death-game. Somebody dies. "I can always make a man fight," the maniac told me.
Max locked my eyes, making it not true in his mind. But he knew. I heard a sharp crack. The water glass popped in his hand. Blood flowed across the knuckles.
My brother bowed slowly to me. And then he was gone.
I lit another cigarette. Mama came back to the booth. A waiter made the blood disappear.
"You tell him, yes?"
I didn't answer her. She left me alone.
WEEKS WENT by like that. Slow, gray time. Like being inside. I stayed where I was, not even waiting. McGowan's partner took his shot too. Morales, a thickset Puerto Rican. He got right to it, bracing me in the basement poolroom. I was pushing the balls around the green felt by myself when he walked in. Took a seat and watched me for a while, not saying anything. The stick artists ignored him- the salesmen moved away from our area. There's rooms upstairs you can rent by the hour.
He tilted his hat back, small dark eyes like bullet holes in his head. Watching.
I stroked the bright orange five ball into the corner pocket. The cue ball reversed itself on the short rail and slapped into a cluster of balls, scattering them.
"Nice shot," Morales said.
I chalked my cue. Nudged the four ball into the same pocket.
"You're a good shooter, I hear."
I tapped the thirteen, sliding it toward the opposite corner. Chalked my cue again.
"Funny game, pool," he said. "You shoot a ball, you do it right, and it just disappears right off the table."
I banked the ten ball into the side pocket.
He got up, poked through the racks of standing cues, found one that suited him.
"Let's you and me play a game," he said, sweeping the loose balls together into the triangular rack. Nine balls.
"Five and ten?" I asked him.
He tilted his head toward a dirty hand-painted sign on the near wall. No Gambling.
"It wouldn't be," I told him.
His lips curled. He didn't pretend it was a smile. "One money ball- a dime on the nine?"
I nodded. He reached in his pocket for a coin, started to toss it on the table.
"Do it," I said, sitting down.
Morales broke the balls the way he'd like to break mine. With a hard, straight-ahead slash. Lots of power, no stroke. The balls scattered, running for cover. The three dropped in. He power-slammed the one ball, not even thinking about running the table. A slugger- no finesse. When the dust settled, there were still eight balls on the green cloth.