"So I know what she does. For money."

"I do things for money too."

"Would you let somebody fuck you for money?"

"Meaning you wouldn't?"

"No. I wouldn't. I would never do that. It's wrong."

"So you don't just punch people out, you're a goddamned judge too?"

"If you like."

"No, I don't like. I don't like you. A woman takes money for sex, she's no good according to you, right? But you, you want to do some bodywork on me, bang me around, scare me into doing something you want...that's okay?"

"I said I was wrong."

"No, bitch. You said you guessed wrong, that's all. It worked for you before, didn't it?"

"What?"

"Slapping people around."

"You chipped a bone in my ankle," she said, a littleagirl undertone to her voice. "It hurt, what you did."

"You hurt yourself," I told her. Thinking of an ancient aikido master standing in a dojo years before, talking to a student who was moaning and holding his broken hand, telling him it was the student's desire to hurt another that caused him so much pain.

"I cop to it, okay?" she said flatly. "When you do something wrong, all you can do is apologize and take what's coming to you."

"And what's coming to you is paying me off?"

"I asked you if you wanted something else."

"When?"

"I said you could kick my ass if you wanted to. You still can, if it would make things right. Or..."

"What?"

"Or you can...have me. Any way you want."

"Instead of the money?"

"Yes."

"But you're not a whore, huh?"

Her face flamed. "You can keep the money too, all right?"

"I don't want you."

"You would if I was...nice," she said softly. "I know you would- it's in your eyes."

"You need a translator," I told her.

"Am I too fat for you? Or maybe you just like whores."

"Maybe I just don't like liars."

She took a deep breath, squeezing her hands together in her lap. Max was still into his kata, never breaking the flow. If she'd brought friends with her, they weren't close enough to do much. Not with their hands, anyway. I've seen Max move- he was a hell of a lot closer than he looked. And whatever she planned to do, she couldn't run away.

"I'll give you one more thing, then," she said. "The truth. How's that?"

"Say it. Then I'll tell you what it's worth."

She turned to face me, quickly ran her tongue over her lips. It wasn't a comeaon- she was getting ready to talk. "When I was thirteen years old I was already...built like this. I looked like I was twenty at least. And I dressed like it too. I met a man. A famous man. He was a writer. A serious writer. He wrote books about economics. And social theory and politics and stuff like that. We were...friends. He thought I was older, but he never tried anything with me. Just...holding hands and stuff. I told him I was a salesgirl. In a record store. I knew a lot about that- I used to spend all my time in one. We were together a lot. Mostly in this coffeehouse in the Village. An oldastyle one. Little tables, checkered tablecloths, you could sit there for hours and nobody'd bother you....

"But sometimes we went to his place. He had an apartment, the first floor of a brownstone on Bank Street. It was mostly books. Real quiet and peaceful. He'd give me books to read, and we'd talk about them. I wanted him to love me. And I think he did, maybe..."

Her voice trailed off. I closed my eyes so I could hear her better. Waited.

"I had a key to his place. I got there before him one night. I wanted to surprise him. I took my clothes off and took a bath. A bubble bath. In his tub. Then I put on this negligee I bought. I thought it was real sexy, but now I know it was just cheap and tacky. I was going to be a surprise package for him when he got home. So he could unwrap it, you understand?"

"Sure."

"But when he walked in the door and saw me, his face got all red, like he was real mad. I asked him what was wrong. And then he asked me how old I was."

"I lied. Like I did before. But he wasn't going for it. I showed him my fake ID and everything, but it was like he...knew something. I took off the negligee. I stood right in front of him. Naked. But he didn't budge, just stood there with his arms folded. And then I told him the truth. His face went white. He was scared, I could tell."

She went quiet for a minute, her face bowed. A tear tracked her cheek, cutting a soft river through the heavy makeup. I turned my detector on full, but the signals were still scrambled. I swept the field with my eyes without turning my head but the ground all around me was bland. Max was still in place.

Maybe a minute passed. If she was waiting for me to say something, she was out of luck. Finally, she looked up. "That's when I...did it. I told him he had to make love to me. He had to. Or I'd tell everyone he did."

I made some neutral sound, encouraging her to talk, not judging.

"He just stood there with his arms folded. I got dressed and I left. I called him after that. A lot of times. After a while, he just used his answering machine to screen the calls. It made me so mad...knowing he was right there and he wouldn't even talk to me."

"What could he have said?" I asked quietly.

"I don't know," she answered. "Something...But he didn't. Nothing. Nothing at all. So that's when I did it."

"Did what, Heather?"

"I told on him. I told my mother. But she said that's what I deserved, dressing like a slut, not listening to her and all. She called me a fat fucking cow. She always called me that. My father...they're divorced, he lives in L.A., I never see him. So I told a teacher. A guidance counselor. And then she went to my mother."

"What did you tell the counselor?"

"That we were lovers. That we had sex. Not...real sex. I was too smart for that. I mean, I was a virgin. And I knew there were ways they could tell. I knew what to tell them. I told them we did...other things. My mother was real mad. Not for what happened- what I said happened- but because I embarrassed her. She went and got the strap. But I told her if she ever raised that thing to me again, I'd break her fucking arm for her. She knew I could do it then- I was almost as big as I am now. Strong too."

"So what happened?"

"She didn't do anything. Just left me alone. But she told her boyfriend. A lawyer. And he told her she could make money if I sued him. So that's what we did."

"Did you go to the police too?"

"No. At least, not at first. Her boyfriend, he told us we should ask for money first. In a letter. But he wouldn't pay. He wrote and said I was a liar. And I was."

"How did the case...?"

"It made the papers. They even took my picture. My mother's boyfriend had me dress up like a little girl. No makeup, a big loose dress and everything. We sued him for five million dollars. I looked just like I really was- a fat, ugly, sad little girl."

"He ever pay it?"

"No," she said, her voice strangling on grief. "He never paid it. He killed himself. With a gun. In his apartment. In that same room."

"Ah..."

"He left a note. Not for the papers, for me. He mailed it to me- I got it after he was gone. It said: 'Your lies took my life.' That's all."

"What happened then?"

"I went...nuts. My mother put me in a hospital. I was there almost five years. I wanted to kill myself too. So I could apologize. So I could be with him and apologize. It took me a long time before..."

"Before...?"

"Before they let me out. Then I went to college. I went to high school in the hospital, so I was ready. When I got out, I just drifted. Waiting for something, I didn't know what. And then I met him."

"Kite?"

"He gave a lecture. It only cost ten dollars. He talked about the climate. The American climate. How we have witch hunts all over again, only this time, about child sexual abuse. After the lecture, I went up to him. And I told him the truth, like I just told you."

She clasped her hands under her breasts, lifting them up like the offering she'd made to the man she killed so many years before , her voice rapt with trueabeliever lust. "He didn't shun me. He listened. He explained to me why I did it. He said if the climate was right in America, I wouldn't really have caused that much damage. Nobody would have been hurt. The right people would have asked the right questions, and the truth would have come out. That's what he does. That's his work.

"He told me something else too," she said softly. "How I could make up for what I did. Helping him in his work. That's what I've done ever since. Almost ten years now. And when he told me about you, I was scared. I read your file. You're a criminal. You went to prison. I think you even killed people- it says you did in your file. But he was sure you were the right man for this. It's so important to him."

"What?"

"The truth- don't you understand? He always says the people who say it never happens are just as crazy as the ones who say it always happens. He believes this wom- In this case, I mean. I do too. And he says you're the man to prove it for him...If you can't break a story, it can't be broken, that's what he says."

She turned her head toward the water, looking at the dark river as if it would give her strength. "He says you would have broken me. That if you had been on the job, I never would have gotten away with it. Oh God, I wish that had been. But you're a...mercenary, that's what he calls you. I was afraid you wouldn't play square. That you'd take money from the other side and betray us. He's not a...strong man. Not physically, I mean. I was afraid you'd take his money and then just go away and laugh at him."

"So you thought you'd...what? Scare me?"

"I thought if you knew...that I'd kill you if you betrayed him, maybe you'd...I don't know! I wasn't really trying to hurt you. Not hurt you bad. If I wanted to do that, I would have used these," she said, one pudgy little hand going to the waistband of the sweatsuit. She moved slow and careful, taking out a pair of brass knuckles. Not fitting them over her fists, just showing them to me. "I know how to use them," she said. "I learned to do it in...there. Some of those attendants, they...I wanted you to know, if you did that to him, I'd kill you."

"I believe you'd kill me, Heather," I told her. "That's why I'm walking away. I got enough enemies."

"You can't!" she cried, grabbing my hand. "Please! He needs you. I do too. I'm sorry for what I did. Sorry for what I did to...him. And to you too. I don't care if you hate me. I wouldn't even blame you. I hate me too. Please, please...just take the money. And...whatever else you want."

I had no map for this, so I went with the only thing I knew. "Tell Kite I'll call him in a couple of days," I told her, scooping up the feedabag purse as I got to my feet.

I didn't look back.

The Prof was standing next to Clarence's Rover as I approached, a lawyer's black leather attache case in his hand. "She rolled in alone, home," he said. "In a big beast. All white, smoked glass- a highaglide ride."

"You get a look inside?"

"Just a glimpse, when the door opened. I tried to sneak a peek, but I couldn't see nobody else. She was behind the wheel."

"Think Kite doesn't know?"

"No way to tell, Schoolboy. She parked a long way down. Bitch had to gimp it for a good quarter mile."

"Yeah. That the stuff from Wolfe?"

"That's the true clue, babe. Pickup went smooth. Clarence copped it from that blonde with the doughnutasnatching pit bull. She was right on time."

"Thanks," I said, taking the attache case from him. "How's this scan to you?" I asked, running down what happened in Kite's apartment, what Heather just told me too.

The little man listened close, head cocked so I didn't have to speak up, a habit that marked him as clear as a jailhouse tattoo. "She knows how it's done, son. Stripped to freeze your eye, dropped the sucker punch before you could catch the lie. Can't be the first time she played that tune."

"Yeah. Felt like she was going for it too. I hadn't stopped her, she was gonna hurt me."

"You think pain's her game?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"No. And I'm not gonna find out either. That's a freaky, dangerous broad. I think she was telling the truth. She wants this. Wants it bad. I think she's used to bulling her way through things. She's real...I don't know...physical. Maybe she works the badacop thing with Kite. When he does questioning..."

"If roughaoff's the tool, she's a fool," the Prof said. "You got to check out the canvas before you paint."

"I know," I said, remembering. It was one of the first things he taught me.

"You gonna play it?" he asked me, not pushing either way.

"Man went to a lot of trouble," I said, thinking it through out loud. "Time and money both. It's me he wants. For this job, anyway. I don't know what he'd do if I pulled out, but there's no reason to risk it. We're gonna get paid, right? And some of that money's gonna buy us the same gun he's pointing at my head- information."

"Yeah," the little man agreed. "I wouldn't want that Wolfe woman getting me in her sights either."

I reached in the feedabag purse, counted out five thousand and pocketed it for Bondi. Then I handed the purse over to the Prof. "There's twenty in here. Five apiece for you, me, Clarence, and Max. Hush money, bitch thinks it is. I'm gonna stay hushed for a while. Near as I can tell, Kite wants me to talk to someone, see if they're telling the truth. I'm gonna do that. Then..."

"You backed, Jack," the little man said.

I drove away slowly in the Plymouth, enclosed in the steel but looking out through the glass. Thinking about how safe the Prof always made me feel.

I'd come into prison a rookie thug, pulling armed robberies cowboyastyle, ready to risk a life sentence for a payroll. The prison economy produces entrepreneurs the same way the Outside does. Pressure extrudes. There was this guy who was always just one beat off from the crime music the rest of us lived by. The Prof called him Einstein and, after a while, we did too. Einstein was always coming up with great ideas. One was booksaonavideo for the deaf: On the screen would be a person signing the whole book, like closed caption. Another move was Mother Nature's cigarettes: organically grown tobacco, no pesticides, rolled in recycled paper. He was going to sell them in healthafood stores. The flash of his ideas always blinded him to the one little problem with them.