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31

WHEN I CAME to, I was still in the chair. Pansy was muttering at me. I told her to go on the roof-the door was already open. I needed a shower and a change of clothes. I figured I couldn’t shave my face the way it was and I was glad of the excuse-I hate shaving. But Flood, who looked as fresh as new flowers, said she could shave me painlessly as long as I got my face warm and wet. It was awkward in the tiny bathroom, but Flood sat on the sink facing me and did a beautiful job. I never felt a thing. While she was shaving me I watched her breasts bounce ever so slightly in the morning light-she was biting her lip in concentration, and I thought how fine it would be to have her around all the time. I realized I’d been hit harder in the head than I’d thought.

At a little past seven in the morning I sat down at my desk again, checked the phones to make sure the hippies weren’t changing their ways, and dialed. It was picked up on the second ring. “Clinica de Obreros, buenos dias.”

“Doctor Cintrone, por favor.”

“El doctor esta con un paciente. Hay algun mensaje?”

“Por favor llamat al Se~nor White a las nueve esta ma~nana.”

“Esta bien.” And we both rang off.

Flood was staring at me. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

“I don’t. I just know a few phrases for certain situations.”

“You asked him to call you tomorrow?”

“Today, Flood. Ma~nana just means morning-like in German morgen means tomorrow, but if you say guten morgen it means good day.”

“Oh. So who’s this doctor?”

“Nobody. You didn’t hear that conversation. That knock on the head you gave me is making me stupid. I’ll do this, not you. Okay?”

Flood shrugged.

“I have to go out and see someone. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. You want to wait here, at your place, or what?”

“Would it be a problem to take me back to the studio? You could call me there.”

“No problem, I need the car anyway.”

I set out some food for Pansy, hung around a few moments until she snarfed it down, set up the office again, and we went downstairs to the garage. I moved quickly to get Flood home, and she seemed to understand that I was working on a schedule now. Jumping out of the Plymouth while it was still rolling to a stop, she threw me a quick wave over her shoulder and ran into her building. I had to be at the pay phone on Forty-second and Eighth at nine on the dot. That’s what the Mr. White message would mean to Dr. Pablo Cintrone, director and resident psychiatrist at the Hispanic Workers Clinic in East Harlem.

Pablo was a towering figure in the city, a graduate of Harvard Medical School who turned down a small fortune when he went back to where he came from. He’s a medium-sized, dark-skinned Puerto Rican with a moderate afro, a small beard, rimless glasses, and a smile that made you think of altar boys. He worked a twelve-hour day at the clinic, six days a week, and he still found time for his hobbies, like leading rent strikes and campaigning against the closing of local hospitals. The rumor that he went to medical school to learn how to perform abortions because the cost of the pregnancies he caused were going to break him was untrue. Other people thought he was dealing prescription drugs out of the clinic or that he was a secret slumlord. All bullshit, but he allowed the stories to circulate because it kept the focus away from things that were really important to him-like being el jefe of Una Gente Libre.

Una Gente Libre-A Free People-didn’t operate like most so-called underground groups. No letters to the newspapers, no phone calls to the media, no bombs in public places. They had been blamed for a number of outright assassinations over the years-a mixed bag of sweatshop owners, slum landlords, dope dealers, and apparently some honest citizens. But infiltration was impossible-they’d never applied for a government grant. The word would go on the street that UGL wanted someone-and someone would die. UGL was a dead-serious crew.

You can’t hang around Forty-second and Eighth. It’s a trouble-corner, especially after dark. But early in the morning there’s still a few citizens around. And, of course, plenty of whores in case the citizens want their cocktail hour a bit early. But the phone booths were empty, like I expected. I’d rather have used someplace else, but the rule is you can’t ever make calls from Mama’s. This conversation wouldn’t last long anyway. I knew where I had to go-I just had to be sure I could go there safely.

I rolled up on the phone with a minute or so to spare. It rang right on the money.

“It’s me.”

“So?”

“Have to meet you. Important.”

“Hail a green gypsy cab with a foxtail on the antenna in front of the Bronx Criminal Court tonight at eleven-thirty. He’ll ask you if you want to go to the Waldorf.”

And that was the whole conversation. Time was running short-I could put off the business with Dandy, but I’d given the phony gunrunners a deadline. I put the Plymouth in gear and rolled.


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