Pain Management

“One girl was here,” she said, tapping a street corner with a burnt-orange fingernail. “The other was . . . here. And he confronted other ones here, here, and . . . here. You see it?”

“A triangle.”

“Right. And not a big one.”

“He doesn’t have to be operating from inside the triangle. But it makes the most sense.”

“Because he doesn’t have a car?”

“I don’t know about that. But . . . yeah, that could be it. If those tattoos are jailhouse, it probably is.”

“Why would an ex-con be more likely to—?”

“Pro bank robbers don’t do Bonnie and Clyde crap anymore. It’s still hit-and-run, but you don’t run far. Best way is to have a place to hole up real close to the bank. Just put a little distance between you and the job, then go to ground. And stay there. Disappear. The longer the law looks, the farther away they think you got. Sounds like the way this guy is playing it, too.”

“He would have learned that in prison?”

“Sure.”

“It doesn’t seem . . . I mean, it’s like a trade secret, right? Why would anyone give away information like that?”

“Couple of reasons. In prison, talking is one of the major activities. And you want to be as high up on the status ladder as you can get. There’s always old cons doing the book who’ll—”

“Doing the book?”

“Life. Some older guys, they like the idea of being mentors, pass along what they’ve learned, teach the techniques. And not just the pros. The freaks do it, too.”

“Freaks?”

“Rapists, child molesters, giggle-at-the-flames arsonists . . .”

“What ‘techniques’ could they have?”

“Why do you think so many ex-con rapists use condoms? So they won’t leave a DNA trail. Or why so many ex-con child molesters marry single mothers? Or why—”

“I get it,” she said, repulsion bathing her voice.

“This guy learned about shaking down street whores from somewhere. And about having a place close by to duck into. But whoever told him about ceramic knives left something out.”

“What’s a ceramic knife?”

“What he’s using. They’re not made from steel, they’re made from glass . . . like the obsidian knives the Aztecs used a long time ago. Glass takes a much sharper edge than any metal could. Ceramic knives come in black, too, but steel doesn’t come in white, see? So, if the word’s right about a white knife . . .”

“It is,” she said, confidently.

“Okay, then that’s how we play it. Thing is, ceramic knives aren’t just made of glass, they can also break like glass. They’re great for kitchens, but you wouldn’t want to fight with one.”

“He’s not doing any fighting.”

“That’s right. They’re for slashing, not stabbing. But it’s what he carries. And if he has to use it against someone who’s got a blade of his own, he’s going to come up short . . . unless he’s very good with it. That’s the problem with prison knowledge—there’s no way to really check it out until you make it back to the bricks. Inside, everybody’s fascinated with knives. A good knife-fighter can get to be a legend in there,” I said, thinking of Jester the matador, a million years ago. “And a good shank-maker can get rich. So maybe somebody was talking about how ceramic knives are the sharpest thing going. This guy was listening. And when he got out, that’s the first thing he bought.”

“Or maybe he . . .”

“What?”

“Maybe he wasn’t talking with knife-fighters at all. Maybe the prisoners he was talking with, like you said before, their experience was in terrifying people.”

“Or torturing them, yeah. There’s a school of martial arts that concentrates on fighting with edged weapons. Filipino, I think. Or maybe Indonesian. But they teach offense and defense. Meaning, the other guy’s got one, too, see? It’s for a culture where they don’t have a lot of guns. Prison’s like that, but Portland’s sure as hell not. You probably nailed it, girl. He wasn’t learning from pros, he was learning from freaks. I’ll bet that’s why he went with white. He wants people to remember him.”

“Do you think I’m right about the other thing, too? That he has a place inside the triangle?”

“I do. It scans like a guy just out of the joint, looking to build up a little stake before he tries something bigger. But there’s a few things I’d need to know.”

“What?”

“Housing inside that triangle. Is it expensive?”

“Nothing’s all that cheap in Portland, especially with all the gentrification going on. Neighborhoods that used to be skid row are fashionable now. But right in here,” she said, tapping the spot on the map, “there’s a couple of buildings tabbed for renovation. You know what that means.”

“Yep. Okay, you said the knifeman was with a crew, nobody knows exactly how big. Where’d you get that?”

“There’s at least one more. A black guy. Even younger than the guy with the knife. He’s collected from some of the girls.”

“Any more than him?”

“Not that I know about.”

“All right. But even if they’re holed up close, in one of the squats, that doesn’t solve it. I can’t go door-to-door without tipping them. And I can’t Rambo a whole building by myself.”

“But if you followed him . . .”

“Sure. But what’s the odds of me being in the exact spot where he—?”

“Pretty good,” she said, putting both arms around my neck and pulling herself against me, “if you have the right bait.”

It took us the better part of the next day to get the four different cars in place. If Flacco and Gordo were getting a little tired of playing rent-free Hertz for me, they kept it off their faces. But since they pretty much kept everything off their faces, I didn’t have a clue.

By the time we were done, we had the yellow Camaro, the black Corvette, a blue Ford F150 pickup, and a clapped-out eighties-era Pontiac in red primer all within a two mile radius of where Ann was going to make her stand.

“You sure you want to do this?” I asked Flacco.

“Why not?” He shrugged. “What’s the risk?”

“It’s not that. It’s . . .”

“What?” Gordo tossed in. “What’s up with you, hombre? This is just business, right?”

“I don’t know,” I told them, honestly. “I’m getting paid. But the guy who’s paying me, he isn’t paying for this, understand?”

“You double-backing on him?”

“I might,” I said. “If he turns out to be what I think he is.”

“I still don’t see what’s the problem,” Flacco said.

“Look . . . I don’t feel right about . . . this. You guys, you’re doing things for me out of friendship, right? But I’m getting paid. I’d feel better if I was—”

I caught Gordo’s look, nodded, and swiveled my head to bring Flacco into it, too. “See what I mean?” I said to them both. “You’re insulted if I offer you money, but . . .”

“We like you, amigo,” Flacco said, his voice soft. “But this isn’t about you, okay?”

“Then what—?”