Mask Market

message on the answering machine. But Beryl’s mother had to be in her early fifties. And her father said Beryl had been an only child….

A grandchild? Beryl’s child, being raised by the mother? That happens. Girl finds herself pregnant, but can’t find the father. Or doesn’t know who he is. Or does, and wishes she didn’t. So she comes home with the baby—“just until I get on my feet.” Sooner or later, she makes tracks, leaving the baby for her mother to raise. Goes back to the life that put her in that trick bag to begin with.

If you think that only happens in ghettos, get yourself tested for cataracts. Rich folks may live on never- touching parallel tracks, but the same train runs on both of them. For some unwanted kids, there are “state homes.” For others, boarding schools. Some humans dump their children on the grandparents. Some sell them.

If that baby was Beryl’s, could Daniel Parks have been the father? Is that why he was diverting cash to her?

I went back to the CD, using the search function Clarence had shown me. Not even a hint that Beryl might have a child, much less that Parks might be the father.

Was Beryl Summerdale the mother and the daughter? Had Peta Bellingham just gone back home, with her child, and taken her mother’s maiden name as her own? Hiding in plain sight, separating herself from whatever mess Daniel Parks had gotten himself into, waiting for it to blow over. Or for him to be blown away.

“You got pals in D.C., don’t you, honey?” I asked Michelle, on the trip up to Hunts Point.

“Good pals,” she assured me.

“Good enough to lend a car to a stranger?”

“Oh, please,” she said, waving away such pettiness. If Michelle called them good pals, they’d drive a man in a ski mask to the nearest bank…and wait outside, with the motor running.

“That’s some outfit,” I said, not lying. She was wearing a lilac business suit over a plum-colored silk blouse trimmed in black around the collar. Her ankle-strapped spike heels were the same color as the blouse. So were her nails. A jet-black pillbox hat with a half-veil completed the picture, and it was a box-office smash.

“Well, I’m glad someone noticed.”

“Girl, how can you get on the Mole’s case before he even gets a chance to drop the ball?”

“Why wait?” she said, grinning wickedly. “I know my man.”

Michelle had brought a for-once/for-real spring day with her. The Mole’s junkyard lanai was drenched with sun, transforming the random shards of metal and glass that surrounded the area into a glistening necklace.

“You look gorgeous, Mom,” Terry told her, adroitly cuing his father, who still couldn’t come up with the required compliment in time. Michelle generously settled for the blush that suffused the Mole’s pasty skin.

The kid opened a laptop computer with a gigantic screen and fired it up, canting the screen so that I could see, blocking the sunlight with his shoulder.

The screen flashed too quickly for me to follow. A row of what looked like different-colored balloons popped up. Terry played the cursor over a red one and double-clicked. A photo snapped open, as clear as a movie-screen image.

A man in a dark overcoat, caught mid-stride moving down a sidewalk, a bulky briefcase in his right hand. A businessman, returning from a hard day?

“What’s this?” I asked Terry.

“Hold up,” he said, fingering the touchpad.

Another picture. The same man, just turning in to the front walkway of a house.

Click. Close-up of the house.

I’d seen it before.

In Briarwood.

“Got it?” Terry asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay…” He clicked again.

Close-up of a man carrying a briefcase. Three-quarter profile.

Charlie Jones.

“Are you sure he wasn’t just—?”

Before I could say “visiting,” Terry had clicked again. This time, the man was standing on the front step, talking to someone whose back was to the camera. Click, click, click; each one a tighter close-up.

Charlie Jones.

“I never thought those camera phones could get anything like that,” I said, impressed.

“They can’t,” Terry said, proudly. “But when Dad makes one…”

“You see?” Michelle said, preening.

“What’s on the rest?” I asked Terry, indicating the unopened balloons on the screen.

“More of the same,” he said. “He usually comes home from…well, from whatever he does, around two, three in the afternoon.”

“When does he leave?”

“We didn’t have infrared,” the Mole said, answering my question. “You said you only needed—”

“Ah, this is perfect, brother.”

The underground man blushed again.

In New York, a new restaurant opens every seven minutes. Then Darwin takes over, and most disappear within a few months. But they keep coming, like a stampede off a rooftop.

Loyal was all pumped up about trying this Italian joint she’d heard about. It was on Ninth, in the Forties. Way too far to walk, especially in the high heels I’ve never seen her without. It was raining, so getting a cab was a crapshoot, and I didn’t feel lucky.

“Is this your car?” she asked, looking around the interior of the Plymouth like a girl who expected to find a baby-grand piano hidden in a tarpaper shack.

“One of them,” I said. Then I gave her the whole restoration-hobby routine.

“It’s nice,” she pronounced. “Nice and big.”

New York parking lots charge more per hour than some hookers, and they both end up doing the same thing to you. Loyal had a red vinyl raincoat and a little matching umbrella. It didn’t really cover the both of us, but she insisted, molding herself against me as we walked the two blocks to the restaurant.

An olive-skinned woman in a black cocktail dress who’d spent way too much time on her hair tapped an open ledger book with a silver pen and looked at me expectantly. I was about to tell her we didn’t have a reservation—it was only a few minutes past seven, and I could see a dozen empty tables in one glance—when Loyal said, “Lewis,” as she squeezed my left arm with both hands.

A hatcheck girl took Loyal’s raincoat, handed me the ticket and a half-wink.

“Bitch,” Loyal said under her breath.

“She was just working me for a tip when we pick up the coat later.”

“There’s all kinds of tips,” she said, grimly.

A guy in black pants, white shirt, and a black vest showed us to a table for four.

“Will you be joined by—?”

“Just us,” I said. That’s the way guys doing time spell “justice,” but I didn’t share that gem with him.

The waiter looked like he’d been betrayed, but manfully went on to recite a list of specials. Endlessly.

When he was done, Loyal gestured at me to go ahead, she was making up her mind.

I ordered shells and sauce, although they called it something else. Loyal had one of the specials, and a glass of red…although they called it something else.

“To drink?” the waiter said to me.

“Water, please.”

“Perrier? Or—?”