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  "I showed you respect then—and I show you respect now," I said, letting him save face. "But don't disrespect me with this bullshit about 'family,' okay?"

  The old man thought he got it. "You want money?" he asked.

  "For what—for doing what?"

  "I want to make this freak stop hurting Gina."

  "Will she do what you tell her?" I asked him.

  The old man made a clenched fist, pounded his chest where his heart would be if he had one. It was all the answer I needed.

  "I'll take a shot," I told him. "Tell her to go to the park on Friday, just like the freak told her to. I'll be around, okay?"

  "Burke—you'll do it right?"

  "There is no 'right' about this, Julio. I'll get it done or no charge, how's that?"

  "How much?"

  "Ten large," I told him.

  The lizard eyes didn't blink. "You got it."

  I climbed back into the Plymouth. It was only two days to Friday and I'd need some help for this one. The old man's small hand reached for my arm—I stared down at the hand the way you do in prison when someone touches you who shouldn't—it was boneless—nothing but parchment skin and blue veins.

  The old man looked at me. "Burke," he pleaded, "take him off the count."

  "I don't do that kind of work, Julio."

  The old man's eyes shifted again. "You said thirty large, right?"

  "I said ten, old man. I don't do that kind of work. Period."

  Julio tried to look injured. "You think I'm wearing a wire?"

  "No, old man, I don't think you're wired. But you know better than to ask me to drop someone. I'll do what I said I'll do. That's it. Say yes or say no."

  "Yes," said the old man, and I backed out of the garage, heading back to the city.

  2

  IT TOOK us most of the night to get everything in place. I couldn't bring Pansy on a job like this—if I kept her in the blind with me and some fool let his dog lift a leg against a nearby tree, the emergency ward would have some new customers. She's perfect on a job when you're working people, but other dogs annoy the hell out of her—especially male dogs.

  Max the Silent was somewhere in the nearby brush. He's a Mongolian free–lance warrior who works for only those he wants to, and walks where he will. Calling him a karate expert is like calling a politician crooked—it doesn't tell you anything special. A strange little guy we call the Prophet was trying to explain Max to some of the young guys on the yard once. He did it much better than I could—when the Prophet talks, it's like being in church, only he tells the truth:

  "Max the Silent? Max the life–taking, widow–making, silent wind of death? Brothers, better to drink radioactive waste, easier to reason with a rattlesnake, safer to wear a gasoline overcoat into the fires of hell than to mess with that man. You go to fuck with Max, people, you best bring your own body bag."

  But he's not called Max the Silent because he moves so quietly. Max doesn't speak and he doesn't hear. He may be able to read lips—nobody knows—but he communicates perfectly. I showed him some of the clippings the freak had mailed to the redhead; then I made the universal sign of the maggot—two palms pressed together, one opened to show a rock being overturned, and a disgusted face at what I was looking at underneath the rock. Then I made the sign of using the telephone, and started to unbutton my shirt with a horrified look on my face. He got it all, and he dealt himself in. We'd split the money.

  It was quiet and peaceful in my concealed blind. It made me think of Biafra again—comfortable isn't the same as safe.

  I watched the redhead jog off along the path, her face set and hard but her body doing what the freak wanted it to do. She'd make the three circuits, standing up all the way—just like Julio promised.

  He had to be out there somewhere. I didn't know his name, but I knew him—he'd have to see the redhead dance for himself. But I'd been there for hours; if he was anywhere nearby, I'd know it by now. The bridle path was about a half–mile around. The freak could be anywhere out there—but so could Max the Silent.

  Minutes passed, but I never moved. I'm good at waiting. Then I heard the car: someone was driving along the road parallel to the bridle path, moving too slowly to be an early commuter. I froze as I heard the tires crunch gravel—he was off the road now, heading over to right across from where I was hidden. Perfect.

  The tan Pontiac rolled to a gentle stop deep into the branches on the other side of the path, about fifty feet from where I was hidden. The engine died and the forest went silent, wondering at this new intruder. The side window of the Pontiac was heavily tinted—I couldn't even see movement inside. Then the door opened and the freak cautiously stepped out. He was tall, well over six feet, and rail–thin. He was wearing one of those jungle camouflage outfits they sell in boutiques, complete with polished black combat boots. He had a military field cap on his head, and his eyes were covered with mirror–lensed sunglasses. A long survival knife was slung low on his left thigh.

  The freak started chopping at tree branches with the knife, covering the nose of the car so it would be invisible. His movements were quick, frantic. Maybe in his mind he was a soldier building a sniper's roost—to me he looked like a freak in a raincoat bouncing up and down in his seat, waiting for a porno movie to start.

  The little telescope brought his face right into the blind with me. I couldn't see his eyes, but his lips were working overtime. Then we both heard the measured slap of sneakers on the path and we knew the redhead was making another circuit. He dove back into the Pontiac. I watched until I saw the driver's window sneak down and there he was, his face swiveled on a scrawny neck, eyes glued to the bridle path.

  The redhead came along at a dead–even pace, running in the middle of the path, looking straight ahead. The freak's head turned with mine as we watched her approach and watched her disappear around a bend. I could see his face, but not his hands—I knew what he was doing with them.

  The freak never moved. His window stayed down. Now I had to wait—was one circuit enough for him to get where he wanted to go? Would he take off now? I couldn't read the license number on his car. If he took off I'd have to make my move without Max.

  But he stayed where he was—going back for seconds. I slowly twisted my neck back and forth, working out the kinks from staying too long in one spot, getting ready to move out. I felt a sharp sting against my face—I slapped the spot, looking all around me for the offending hornet.

  Nothing. Then a snake's hiss, amplified a dozen times, penetrated my foggy brain and I knew Max was close by. It took me another half–minute to spot him, crouched motionless not ten feet from my blind. I pointed over to where the freak was parked and Max nodded—he knew.

  I held up one finger to Max, telling him to wait a minute before he moved. Then I used the same finger to draw a half–circle in the air, made a motion as if I was getting to my feet, and grabbed my left forearm with my right hand. Circle around behind the freak, I was telling Max, wait for me to show myself, and then make sure the target doesn't move. I had grabbed my forearm instead of my throat for good reason—I wanted the freak to stay where he was until I could talk to him, not get planted there forever.

  Max vanished. The park was still quiet—we had some time, but not much. How long does it take a woman protecting her cub to run a half–mile?

  We both heard her before we saw her again, just like the last time. I knew where the redhead had left her gym bag, up ahead of where she rounded the corner. This would be the last time we saw her, but maybe the freak didn't know that. He had missed the first circuit—maybe he thought there was another lap still to come.

  The redhead jogged past us exactly like before—a reluctant machine unable to overcome its programmer. I could feel the freak's eyes burning.

  I waited a couple of seconds after she rounded the bend, watching carefully, but the freak didn't start his engine. I knew Max was in place. No point in trying to be quiet about this—it would take me ten minutes to slither o
ut of the blind without giving myself away.

  I grabbed both knees, rocked back until I was flat on my back, and kicked out with both feet. The blind went flying, the birds started screaming, and I heard the freak trying to start his car. His engine fired into life just as I was charging across the road to where he was hidden, but he never had a chance. His rear tires spun in a frantic dance, but his car never moved. It wouldn't go anywhere, not with the concrete wedges Max had stuffed in front of each front wheel.

  The freak saw me moving toward him; his head was whipping wildly on its thin stalk of a neck looking for a way out, and then Max materialized at the side of the car. Another split–second and he reached into the car and pulled out the freak, the way you'd pull a dead fish out of a tank. The freak started to say something and Max twisted his neck—the something turned out to be a scream. Max flashed his spare hand into the freak's belly, palm out, and the scream turned to silence.

  The Pontiac was a coupe, so I went around to the passenger side and climbed into the front seat. Then I pushed the driver's seat forward and Max climbed in too, holding the freak at arm's length until I shoved the seat–back forward to give him room. He deposited the freak next to me on the front seat, keeping his hand on the scrawny neck.

  We all sat there for a minute. Nobody spoke. Three strangers at a drive–in movie with nothing on the screen. When the silence got too much for the freak, he opened his mouth—it only took a slight pressure from Max's hand for him to realize that talking would be painful. I reached over and snatched the mirror lenses from his sweaty face—I wanted to see his eyes. They darted around in their sockets like half–drunk flies on a Teflon pan.

  "Give me your wallet," I told him, in a calm, quiet voice.

  The freak hastily fumbled open his camouflage suit and handed me a billfold. Just what I expected—a miniature police badge was pinned to one side, almost two hundred in bills, an honorary membership card from the PBA, credit cards, and other assorted crap. The driver's license and registration were my targets, and I found them soon enough.

  "Mark Monroe," I said, reading from the license. "That's a nice name…Mark. You think that's a nice name?" I asked Max, who said nothing. The freak said nothing too. I took my .38 from one pocket and the silencer tube from another. He watched as I carefully screwed them together, assembling a quiet killing machine.

  I made a gesture to Max and his hand vanished from the freak's neck. "You made a big mistake, Mark," I told him.

  The freak looked at me. He tried to talk but his Adam's apple kept bobbing into his voice box. "Just calm down," I told him, "take it easy, Mark." It took a while before he could speak.

  "Wh…what do you want?"

  "What do I want, Mark? I want you to leave people alone. I want you to stop threatening their kids. I want you to stop getting your kicks by torturing people like you did this morning."

  "Could I explain this to you…could I tell you about…?" he wanted to know.

  "Mark, if you want to tell me you're a sick man and that you can't help yourself, I got no time to listen, okay?"

  "No," he said, "I don't mean that. Just let me…"

  "Or maybe you want to tell me how the bitch asked for it—or how she really enjoyed the whole thing—is that it, Mark?"

  "Well, I just…"

  "Because if that's it," I told him, leveling the pistol at his eyes, "I'm going to blow your slimy face all over this car, you understand?"

  The freak didn't make a sound—I'd just used up his only two options and he couldn't think of another. I pulled the keys from the ignition and got out of the car, leaving him inside with Max. The trunk had two cartons of newspaper clippings about kids, plus an assortment of magazines that made Penthouse look like House & Garden—Bondage Beauties, Women in Chains, Leather & Discipline, all hand–job specials for long–distance rapists. I took the stuff out and piled it on the ground; then I got back in the car. The glove compartment had two canisters of the halfass "mace" they sell over the counter, a billy club, and a roll of Saran Wrap. A Saint Christopher's medal dangled from the rearview mirror. Still no surprises.

  "Where do you work, Mark?" I asked him in a friendly tone.

  "Con Edison. I'm an engineer. I've been with them for…"

  "That's enough, Mark!" I said, jabbing him in the ribs with the silencer. "Just answer my questions, okay?"

  "Sure," the freak said, "I just…"

  I jabbed him again, harder than before. "Mark, you and me have got a problem, understand? My problem is how to stop you from doing this stuff again, okay? And your problem is how to get out of here alive. You got any good suggestions?"

  The freak's words were tumbling all over themselves, trying to get to the surface. I guess he was better on the phone. "Look, I'll never…I mean, you don't have to worry…"

  "Yeah, Mark, I have to worry. People paid me to worry, you understand what I'm saying?"

  "Sure, sure. I didn't mean that. I'll never call her again, I swear."

  "Yeah, that's right—you won't," I told him. "Now get out of the car, okay? Nice and slow."

  He never tried to run. Max and I walked him back deep into the woods until I found what I was looking for—a flat stump where the Parks Department had chopped down a monster maple tree for some stupid reason.

  "Mark, I want you to kneel down and put your hands on the tree—where I can see them."

  "I…" the freak said, but it was a waste of effort. Max's clenched hand drove him to the earth. I let him kneel there as though I had all the time in the world.

  "Mark, I notice you're all dressed in survival gear—it's real nice. When you drive yourself to the hospital, you tell them you were out in the woods fucking around and you fell and hurt yourself, okay?"

  "Hurt myself?" he whined.

  "Yeah, Mark, hurt yourself. Because that's just what you did today—you hurt yourself. You always hurt yourself when you try and fuck with people, right?"

  "Please…please, don't. I can't stand pain. My doctor…"

  I nodded to Max. I saw his foot flash in the morning light and I heard the crack—now the freak only had one thighbone that went from end to end. His face turned dead–white and vomit erupted from his mouth, but he never moved his hands. Even slime can learn.

  "Every time you try and walk straight, Mark, I want you to think about how much fun you had in the park this morning, okay?" I asked him.

  The freak's face was contorted in pain, his lips bleeding where he had bitten into them. "Yes!" he gasped out.

  "And every time you try and dial a phone, Mark, I want you to think about today—will you do that?"

  "Yes, yes!" he blubbered again. Max reached over and took one of his hands gently from the tree stump. A quick twist behind the freak's back, another loud snap, and the arm was useless. They call it a spiral fracture—the doctors would never get it set right. The freak had opened his mouth wide, set for a desperate shriek, when he saw the pistol six inches from his face. The scream died—he didn't want to.

  "Mark," I told him, "listen to me real good. I know your name, your address, your Social Security number…I know everything. If this ever happens again—if you ever so much as use a scissors on a newspaper or make a phone call again—I'm going to pull your eyes out of your head with a pair of pliers and feed them to you. You got that?"

  The freak looked at me; his body was working but his brain was on the critical list. All he could say was "Please…" It wasn't enough.

  "Mark, when you get to that emergency room, you better tell them you hurt yourself, right? You bring anyone else into this, and you're a piece of meat. We're going to be leaving in just a minute. You can still drive, and the pain will pass. But if you ever forget the pain, there's lots more coming, okay?"

  "Yes," the freak said.

  "Oh, just one more thing," I told him, "I got to make sure you don't forget, Mark. And, like I told you, pain goes away. So I'm going to leave you something permanent as a souvenir of your little war–games today."
<
br />   The freak's eyes turned crazy when I pulled the butcher knife from my coat, watching his one hand resting on the tree stump.

  "Don't move," I told him, but he whipped back his hand and tried to run. You can't run on a broken leg. This time we let him scream.

  Max hauled him back to the chopping block, holding the freak's forearm down like an anvil on a feather.

  "Now, see what you did to yourself, Mark?" I asked him. "You turned a nice clean broken leg into a compound fracture. You jump around too much now and you're liable to lose an arm instead of just a hand, okay?"

  The freak's slimy smell mingled with his urine as he lost all control. He was making sounds but they weren't words. Max grabbed the freak's fingertips, stretching the hand out for me. I raised the butcher knife high above my head and brought it flashing down. The freak gasped and passed out.

  I pulled the knife short, looked back at Max. He immediately grabbed the freak's hand and stretched it again, but I waved him away. If the freak hadn't learned from what had happened to him already, he was past anything we could do.

  Time to go. Max picked up the two cartons of filth in one hand and we worked our way back to the blind. I pulled out the screen and carried it to the hidden Plymouth. Another two minutes and we pulled out of the forest onto the pavement. I left Max in the car and used some branches to sweep away the tire tracks.

  Another five minutes and we vanished onto the Inter–Boro, heading for Brooklyn.

  3

  IT SHOULD have been over then, except for picking up the money. You don't get cash in front from a man like Julio—it's disrespectful. Besides, I know where he lives, and all he has for me is a pay–phone number in Mama's restaurant.

  I gave him three weeks and then I called the gas station from a pay phone near my office. You have to call early in the mornings from the phone—it belongs to the trust–fund hippies who live in the loft underneath me. They generally stay up all night working on their halfass stabs at self–expression, and they usually fall out well past midnight, dreaming of a marijuana paradise where all men are brothers. Good thing they never ride the subways. I don't pay rent for the top floor and I never expect to, unless the landlord sells the building. His son did something real stupid to some people a few years ago, and I passed the information only as far as the landlord. Like I told him one time, the top floor has lots of room to store information like that, but if I had to move to a smaller place…you never know.