WHEN I got back to the office after dropping Max off, I let Pansy out to her roof. Turned on the radio. A car bombing out in Ozone Park, Queens. A soldier and an underboss splattered. I had some rye toast and ginger ale, thinking I might like to bet on a horse when this was all over.
Pansy came back inside. I worked on her commands for a half hour or so, just to keep her sharp. Like oiling a gun. Then I went to sleep.
The radio was still on when I woke up around ten o'clock that night. Another bombing, this one in Bushwick, Brooklyn. The wise-guys would be paying people to start their cars for a while.
I went into the street. Called Strega. She was right by the phone, like she knew.
"It's me. You find out?"
"I think so. I'll be sure by tomorrow night."
I hung up. Called Mama. Nothing from Morehouse, the lazy bastard.
Dialed the Mole. Heard the phone picked up. The Mole never speaks first. "I need a car," I said. "You got one?"
"Yes." Terry's voice. The connection went dead.
Terry let me into the junkyard. I slid over and he took the wheel, guiding the Plymouth through the maze to a resting place.
"They still fighting?" I asked the kid.
"Mole says Mom has to make her own decision."
"He tell her that?"
"No. But she knows."
The Mole was working in one of the Quonset huts he has scattered around the place. No windows, but it was as well-lit as an operating table. A tired-looking Ford four-door sedan was in pieces on the floor.
"What're you doing, Mole?" I greeted him.
"Working." Mr. Personality.
I remembered the counsel the Prof had given me when I was a kid first learning to do time. Watch. Watch and learn. Pay attention or pay the price. I sat down on an old engine block, lit a smoke.
Terry worked with the Mole like gears meshing. Nothing wasted, quick and clean. Each of them took an end of the Ford's back seat. They slid it back into place. I heard a sharp click. The boy shoved harder, using his shoulder. Another click. The rocker panels were off. I saw what looked like a long, thin shock absorber running parallel to the ground. Where the running board would be if they still used them on cars. The Mole fitted a short length of track between the back and front seats. Fiddled around in the trunk. A sound like something being released. I went closer, peered over his shoulder. The back of the front seat was a solid-steel plate, ugly welds slashed across the corners. The front seat was welded to the chassis around the bottom seams. A brick wall.
The Mole signaled to Terry. They each took an end of the back seat, slid it back and forth on the runners. It reached all the way to the welded steel plate. Terry sprayed the runners with silicon.
"We'll test it," the Mole said.
Terry pointed to a pile of green plastic garbage bags stacked against the wall. "Give us a hand, Burke."
I picked one up. Heavy. Maybe sixty pounds. "How many you need?" I asked.
"Six?" the boy said, looking at the Mole. He nodded, absorbed.
I took a sack in each hand, brought them over to the car. Terry wrapped both arms around one sack and followed me. The Mole watched. One more trip each and we had them all.
"What now?" I asked.
The Mole pointed at the back seat. "Four there, two in front."
I loaded them in. Terry struggled until he had one sack on top of another. Two big lumps in the back, one in the front, behind the wheel. Driver and two passengers.
The Mole threaded a wire from the dashboard through the open car window. Backed up until we were against the wall. He stripped the wire, wound it around a terminal on the workbench.
"Stand back," he said.
The back seat shot forward like it was fired from a rocket launcher, slamming into the steel wall. The car rocked on its tires. The back seat bounced off the steel plate, floating listlessly on the siliconed tracks. We went to take a look. The four green plastic bags were plastered to the steel wall like paint on canvas. It smelled of old smeared death. In the front, the top bag had hit the steering wheel and ripped open. White suet mess inside, blood-streaked.
"It works," the Mole said. "We have to tighten the front seat braces."
I stepped outside to get away from the smell. Waited for the Mole and Terry to join me.
The kid was first out. "What was that mess?" I asked him.
"Just fat they slice off the sides of beef in the meat market. They throw it out in big tubs. The Mole says it's pretty much like people, only without the bones."
Michelle would love it. The Mole lumbered out into the night air.
I looked over my shoulder at the car. "How does it work?"
"Two hydraulic pumps. Compressed air. When you hit the trigger, the back seat releases from the catches and slides forward on the tracks. Very fast. Into the wall behind the front seat."
"So if anyone's sitting in the back seat…?"
"Crushed. No escape."
"And the driver."
"Once it's strengthened, no problem. If you wear a seat belt."
I dragged deep on my cigarette, thinking about what my family had been telling me. About not acting like myself. Thinking about insurance. "Mole, could I borrow that car?"
"It has to be cleaned. Then we have to reset the trigger, wire it to a button on the dash, put slipcovers over the front seat. A lot of work. This was just an experiment."
"But you could do it."
"Yes." He hesitated. "The car, it's a killing machine. For Nazis."
"Mole, you know about Wesley. You know he's back and…"
"I know."
"Well? Can I…?"
The Mole's lumpy body stiffened as he looked up into my eyes. "Wesley's not a Nazi, Burke."
"Mole…"
"What he does, it's not for freakish fun. Not like them."
"You're saying he's like…us?"
"More like us than them," he said as he walked away, the kid trailing behind.
I left the Plymouth in the junkyard. Switched it for a dark blue Buick sedan with clean plates.
By the time I stashed the car in my garage it was four in the morning.
I let Pansy out to her roof one more time. Then I went back to sleep.