Only Child

“The locals wouldn’t go that far unless they were serious. And empty. This wasn’t a ransom kidnapping. No evidence that she was taken across a state line. No reason for the federales to have jurisdiction. And that would be the way most local departments would want it. They talk cooperation, but they’re always worried about credit-stealing, especially when the feds have better access to the national media. So, if the locals asked for help, that tells me they really wanted to crack it.”

“The feds,” Giovanni muttered, half to himself.

“Not New York feds,” I reminded him. “And not DEA,” I put in, for Felix.

“I know,” Giovanni said. “But what do they have, for all this? Nothing. Not a single—candidate, you called him, right?—not a single candidate in Vonni’s life. And no ‘pattern’ they can link to a serial killer or whatever. You said it was maybe more than one, don’t forget. To me, it still looks like just what I said. A hit. A hit to send me a message.”

“What do you want me to do?” I said.

“You got a plan, don’t you, Burke?” he asked, more anxiety in his voice than he realized.

“It may not be much of one....”

“Yeah. Me and Felix, we don’t know you, know you, see what I’m saying? But we know of you. Of your ‘brother,’ anyway, okay? We asked around, people who know. You got a lot of rep. For different things. One of them is, you see a chance to open a money vein, you stick in a big damn needle. So, sure, you got a plan. Only it’ll cost a lot of coin, try it out; am I right or wrong?”

“You’re right. And all that means for sure is that the plan happens, not the result. I’m not making any promises.”

“That’s what a reputation is,” Felix purred. “It makes the promises for you. And you have more than one reputation, Burke. This kind of thing. A child. You have a reputation about such things.”

“Oh, I want him, all right,” I admitted.

“Whoever he is?” Giovanni asked.

I turned to hold his eyes. “If he was Christ on the fucking cross,” I said.

When you’re on the run, “safe sex” is the kind you pay for. When you go anywhere near women you know, what you can’t know is if they’re going to keep it to themselves. Maybe they grapevined into a reward-money rumor; maybe they’ve got a case on them—there’s all kinds of reasons, and it never takes a good one.

But buying sex doesn’t buy you loyalty, and hustlers are always hustling.

So the best bet is strangers.

I’m good at being a stranger. It comes naturally to me. I’ve got a drifter’s mind, and I’ve been enough places so I can speak “not from around here” convincingly, even half a dozen blocks from wherever I live.

You have to pick middle-tier spots. Upscale joints attract ambitious women, and even the most self-absorbed of those ask enough questions to see if you’re going to be a good investment. The other end of the road is landmined so deeply you’d have to step on one to know it’s there. Roadhouse girls are some of the sweetest ever put on this earth, but you never know whose woman you just made a mistake with, until you hear the bottle break on the bar.

Turned out Long Island has a cottage industry in cheaters’ bars, catering to the daytime trade, before husbands get home from work. They all seem within easy driving distance of a motel, too.

But, after the first three, I figured out it wasn’t sex I’d been missing.

“Two G’s for...this?”

“Quite a bargain, yes?” Michelle said, cat-grinning to show she was misunderstanding me deliberately. “Bally makes such beautiful things.”

“It’s just a leather jacket,” I said.

“Oh, pul-leeze! Feel it.”

“It’s awful thin for so much—”

“That is how it’s supposed to be, you dolt. This is summer leather. Soft as butter, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“Aren’t the gussets behind the shoulder a perfect touch? And that color...”

“It’s white.”

“It is not white, you heathen; it’s eggshell. White is the opposite of black.”

“And this is all I need?”

“We’re making a statement,” Michelle said, total confidence. “You can wear any damn thing, a T-shirt and jeans for all I care, so long as you wear this jacket. And you wear it casually, please. Just toss it over the back of the nearest chair. Anybody who knows what to look for will know you’re a man who’s used to the best.”

“These are going to be kids, Michelle. They’ll be looking for Tommy Hilfiger or the Gap, right?”

“No, no, no, honey. If you were one of them, sure. But you’re not. And not trying to be. You’re a movie person. That’s a deity to them. You don’t take your cues from them; they take them from you. They may not recognize the brand but, trust me, girls know how to tell ‘expensive’ at a very young age.”

“And the boys?”

“Boys never know anything,” she said. “Now pay attention. We’re not done. Just a couple of more touches. How do you like these boots?”

“They look okay, I guess,” I said, holding a pair of plain black ankle-high lace-ups with a one-piece sole-and- heel.

“Those are Mephistos.”

“What?”

“It’s a brand name,” she said, tolerating my ignorance with an effort. “This model is called the Naddo. Supposed to be the most comfortable shoes on earth.”

“They look like upper-class Doc Martens.”

“See? Even you can tell they’re high-end.”

“Yeah, all right,” I surrendered. “What else?”

“You need some kind of jewelry. A ring or...a bracelet, maybe.”

“I’m not buying any damn—”

“Oh, Mama will have something,” Michelle said breezily.

The Mistress of the Wardrobe marched up and down in front of us, inspecting her troops. Clarence was all in black, right down to the buttons on his silk shirt. Max’s massive torso was draped in one of the most garish optical assaults ever to come out of Hawaii. Terry had a bleached dungaree jacket over a Dark Horse Comics T-shirt. The Mole wore his favorite dirt-colored jumpsuit, a thick tool belt around his waist.

The Prof had carried her deep into the late rounds, but Michelle had finally TKO’ed him. The little man reluctantly sported a royal-blue knee-length Nehru jacket with thick white vertical stripes. Me, I had my white leather jacket and black boots. A pigeon-blood ruby ring on the little finger of my right hand. And a heavy chain Mama said was platinum on my left wrist, right next to a chunky, beat-up Casio multi-screen watch on a wide black nylon band. “The contrast makes the look,” Michelle had assured me.

“Everybody got their roles?” I asked them.

“I am an executive producer, mahn,” Clarence said, as if daring anyone to dispute it.

“Right. Max is security. The Prof is part of the...What did you call it again, Michelle?”

“The creative team,” she sighed.

“Uh-huh. Okay, the Mole is tech. You can work that whole video rig we got, right?” I asked him.

He gave me one of his particle-accelerator looks, didn’t answer.

“Terry, you’re a studio intern. You’re sure you can talk the talk?”

“We’re going all-digital,” he said smoothly. “It’s the only way to get the immediacy