Mask Market

a gambler. The only way he’d play is with a marked deck.”

“He has been gone a long time, mahn.”

“You mean, the address might be no good now? Sure, that’s true. But if Charlie went to all the trickery and expense involved in a complete ID, he could still be there. Remember, we know one thing—he never crossed Wesley.”

“How could we know that, then?”

Nobody answered. It only took the young man a few seconds to catch up.

For some places, a cab is the perfect surveillance vehicle. You can circle the same block a dozen times, go and come back, even park close by and eat a sandwich, and nobody pays attention. A leaf on a tree, a bird in the forest.

But that wouldn’t work in Briarwood, a community of upper-middle-class houses and even higher aspirations. The only Yellow Cabs you see in that neighborhood are making airport drop-offs, the cabbies seething at the “shortie” trip. For the drivers, waiting on an airport line is a dice-roll. A Manhattan run is a soft six. A carful of Japanese tourists who don’t have a firm grasp of the exchange rate is a natural. Briarwood, that’s snake eyes.

Walk-bys would be even riskier. In that neighborhood, people were peeking out from behind their curtains decades before anyone ever heard of Neighborhood Watch. The population is aging and house-proud, the kind of folks who keep 911 on speed dial. Nobody hangs out on the corners at night. And the community has enough political clout to ensure for-real police patrols, too.

But this is still New York, where info is just another peach to pick. If you can’t reach the branches, you have to know how to shake the trees.

Some do it with research, some do it with subpoenas. People like me do it with cash.

There’s two kinds of bribes—the ones where you get asked, and the ones where you offer. A building inspector looking for mordida knows he has to make the first move—too many DOI stings going on today for an experienced slumlord to take the chance. But the pitch is always so subtle you have to be listening close to catch it.

That kind of bribe, it’s just the cost of doing business, an everyday thing. But if you want someone to go where they’re not supposed to, it’s a lot trickier to put a deal together. The phone company’s wise to employees selling unlisted numbers; the DMV knows what the home address of a celebrity is worth; and there’s always a bull market for Social Security numbers. So there’s all kinds of safeguards in place: You access the computers from inside the company, you’re going to leave a trail. You say the wrong thing on the phone, someone could be listening. Somebody’s always watching, and they’re not anyone’s brother.

Computers make it a lot easier to check on what your employees are doing. But putting all the information in one place is a party where you have to screen the guest list. Not all hackers spend their time trying to write the ultimate virus or crack into a secure site. Some of them are people like me. Working criminals.

The best tools to unlock an account are a Social Security number and a date of birth. We didn’t have either one for Charlie Jones, but we had the name he had been living under and the address where he lived at the time. If that info was dead, so were our chances.

I know a few cyber-slingers, but I don’t trust any of them enough to let them work a name when its owner might wind up deceased. So I had to go to people who don’t trust me.

Pepper is a sunburst girl. She’s got more bounce than a Texas high-school cheerleader, and a smile that could make Jack Kevorkian volunteer to teach CPR. She probably likes everybody on this planet, except…

“It’s me,” I told her, on the phone.

“Okay,” she answered, warm as a robbed grave.

“I want to buy a package.”

“She’s not going to meet you.”

Pepper was talking about Wolfe, the warrior woman who headed up their operation. Back when she was still a prosecutor, she had let me hold her hand for a minute. But then the road we were walking divided, and I took the wrong fork. I did it knowing she’d never follow, hoping she’d wait for me to come back. When I did, she was still in the same spot. But she wasn’t waiting for me. She was doing what she always did—standing her ground.

Not many men get a second chance with a woman like Wolfe. I was probably the only man alive who could have blown them both.

“This isn’t about her,” I said. “It’s not about me, either. I need a package, that’s all.”

“Say where and when.”

“The cafeteria? Tonight? Anytime after eight?”

“Bring it all with you,” she said, and disconnected.

She came in the front door, beamed a “Hi!” to Mama, and breezed over to my booth. Mick was a couple of paces behind her, like he always is. He clasped his hands, bowed to Mama, who returned the gesture of respect.

Mick’s a big man, broad-shouldered, with a natural athlete’s build. His face would be matinee-idol material if it ever had an expression. Pepper once told the Prof that Mick had gone to one of those colleges where the football coach makes more than the whole science department, but he got disgusted with it and left. Made me curious enough to do a little research. Apparently, fracturing the coach’s jaw was enough to get your scholarship canceled.

Mick glided behind Pepper so he was standing beside her as Max and I got to our feet. Mick bowed to Max as he had to Mama, caught the return, then gave me mine. Pepper was still smiling…at Max. We all sat down.

“Oh, could I have some of that special dish we had last time, please?” Pepper said, as Mama came to our table.

“Sure, okay,” Mama said, and disappeared into the back.

“I love fortune cookies,” Pepper said, turning around agilely and swiping a small metal bowl from the table behind her.

“You don’t want those,” I told her.

“Why not?”

“They’re for tourists, Pepper.”

“So?”

“So Mama doesn’t like tourists.”

“Oh, stop!”

I exchanged a look with Mick. He made a “What do you want me to do?” gesture with his eyebrows that might have been one of Max’s.

Pepper delicately cracked one of the cookies open. “Oh, ugh!” she said, tossing the tiny scrap of paper onto the table.

Max picked it up, twisted his lips, and handed it to me. Life is the road to death. All you choose is your speed.

“Told you,” I said.

“Are they all like that?” Pepper asked, curious despite herself.

“Pretty much,” I assured her. One of Mama’s proudest boasts was that no tourist visited twice.

“But the food here is wonderful!”

“That’s not customer food,” I said. “It’s just for…people Mama knows.”

“Then why does she even—?” Pepper started to say, before a look from Mick cut her off.

A waiter came out with a huge, shallow bowl of…whatever it was that Pepper had eaten the last time she’d been there, I guessed.

We ate in silence. Mick was a kung-fu man, and it looked like he was questioning Max about some sort of praying-mantis technique. Or maybe he was just practicing his nonverbal conversation skills. Pepper watched, fascinated. One of the prettiest things about her is how interested she always is in things. I wish she liked me.

The waiter took away our dishes. Max lit a cigarette. Pepper frowned. I reached over and took one for myself. Mick shook his head sadly at my immaturity.

“I’ve got a name,” I said to Pepper. “Two names, really. We don’t know if either one’s legit. One address, but it’s real old.”

“What else?”