I WAS AN HOUR EARLY to the meet with Morehouse. Pansy prowled a tiny circle in front of the car while I was doing something under the hood. Nobody came close enough to find out what.
Morehouse pulled up in his Datsun, fifteen minutes late.
"I was looking for your other car, man. Been cruising the area for a half hour. I…what the fuck is that?"
"Pansy!" I snapped, throwing her a hand signal. She hit the deck, watching Morehouse like a Weight Watcher about to jump ship.
Morehouse's lip curled. "Was that a dog once? Before it swallowed a car?"
"I thought all West Indians loved dogs."
"No, man, you got it wrong. All West Indians are dogs. Just ask my girlfriend. Anyway, I got what you wanted."
"I just hope it's not that fairy story about the old man being holed up in a fortress in Sands Point."
Morehouse was too cool to give it all away, but his eyes slid away from me just far enough to let me know I'd hit the target. "Well, that's what's on the street."
"Yeah. And Donny Manes stabbed himself to death."
"Hey, man, that was the word. Is the word. From on high."
"From on the pad."
"I didn't say that."
"Okay. Thanks anyway."
"That's it?"
"What else is there?"
"Our trade, man. What is wrong with you? I'm not done- I can still come up with the winner. Italians dropping like World War II out there. You were right. Something's coming. And I want to be in the paper with it first."
"I get it, you'll get it, okay? I may have something else for you too. Interested in a cult that traffics in babies?"
"Adoption ring?"
"No. A breeder farm. Using little girls just about old enough to bleed."
"You know I am."
"Want to help out?"
"How?" Suspicion all over his face.
"Switch cars with me."
"What would you want with this old wreck?" he asked, waving his hand at his city-beater.
I pointed at his license plates. NYP. New York Press. Everyone in this city has special plates: doctors, dentists, chiropractors. Everybody but lawyers- it wouldn't be safe for them. "Your plates go anywhere. And even the Italians won't dust a reporter."
"What's this got to do with the baby-seller?"
"Everything."
He reached in his pocket. Tossed me his keys. "Registration's in the glove compartment."
"Mine too."
Morehouse was born to be a reporter. He walked to the Buick, opened the door, one eye on Pansy. He pulled the papers out of the glove box. "Who's Juan Rodriguez?"
"Quién quiere saber?"
He laughed.
I snapped my fingers, opened the door to Morehouse's wreck. Pansy launched herself into the back seat. "I'll call you," I told him.
He stood close to me, voice low. "Burke, there's one thing they say about West Indians that is true. We do love children."