I DROPPED the Prof off at the edge of the Village, turned the Plymouth toward Chinatown. Max spread his hands, asking me "What?" I shrugged. I pulled over to the curb when we got near the warehouse where Max had his temple. His face was a mask, staring out the windshield to some other place. His hand dropped on my forearm, a leather-colored bone sculpture, a ridge of horned callous raised along the chopping edge, the first two knuckles enlarged, a white slash across the back from an old razor scar. He wasn't going to move. I turned to see what he wanted.
The mute Mongolian took his hand from my forearm, tapped two fingers against my chest. Where my heart would be. He put his fingertips together, elbows extending in a straight line. Slowly opened his fingers, tilted his face up. Sunlight? I looked a question at him. He went through the whole thing again. He wasn't getting through. A thick finger drew a cross in the dust on the dashboard. I watched. He put an arrow at the top of the cross. A compass? He extended the right-hand line of the cross all the way to the end of the dash. East? He made the gesture again. I nodded. The Rising Sun. Japan. I said her name. Flood. His hands came together in a prayerful gesture. Pointed at me. At himself. Extended his arms in a child's gesture of an airplane banking through the sky. We could go to Japan. Find her. Bring her back.
I shook my head. No. Again.
He bowed slightly. The way you do before the fight starts. Opened the door and he was gone.