Mask Market

Maybe you can help me out here?”

He went stone-still for a second. Then a tremor shot through his body like a current. His face looked as if a vampire was clamped to his jugular.

“Galya,” he said, barely audible. He slumped forward, face in his hands. The red baseball cap slid off his head and fell to the cold concrete.

If Charlie’s sudden move had been a signal, nobody was tuned in. Sometimes you can feel violence coming, like a rolling shock wave ahead of the actual impact. The penitentiary gets like that when a race war’s running. When you’re trapped in a tiny stone city, when your color makes you a combatant, it changes the air you breathe. Most of the time, you never get a warning—you go from ignorance to autopsy in a fractured second.

That’s the way Wesley liked it. He wasn’t programmed for fear, but he knew how it worked. Sometimes he used it—to spook the herd so he could spot the one he wanted. But mostly he liked it better the other way.

“They’re easier when they’re sleeping,” he had whispered to me one night, after one of the dorm bosses told us if we didn’t get money from home we’d have to pay him some other way.

Detectives were all over the place when we got up in the morning. Word was that the dorm boss’s skull had been caved in, right next to one of his eyes. By the time they discovered the body, the murder kit had vanished: the D-cell batteries returned to the flashlight of the night-shift guard, the gym sock they had been carried in shredded and flushed down a toilet.

That joint had been lousy with rats. Some informed for favors, some just because they liked to do it. But, even then, nobody ever told on Wesley.

The Blood Shadows looked bored. That didn’t mean anything—they’d look bored in the middle of a shootout. Clarence was on his second circuit. I couldn’t see Max. Hadn’t seen him move away, either.

Charlie hadn’t brought friends.

Or he didn’t have any.

I looked over at him, still slumped. Realized that I’d never seen Charlie Jones in daytime, never mind daylight. He looked defeated. Drained. And old—he looked really old.

“Better tell me,” I said.

“Can I smoke?” he asked me, like I was a cop in an interrogation cell.

“Come on, Charlie,” I said, trying to get him to unclench. But even a hit of liquid Valium wouldn’t have gotten the job done, not once I’d brought Wesley back to life.

Charlie looked down at his shaking hands, as if to add them to the list of people who had betrayed him. “Treyf,” he mumbled to himself.

“What’s not kosher?” I said. “I’ve been straight with you from the—”

“Not you,” he said, sorrow drilling a deep hole in his delicate voice.

Max materialized to Charlie’s left, just as a shadow blotted out the sun to his right. I didn’t have to look to know a couple of the leather-jacketed kids were forming their half of the bracket.

Suddenly Charlie and I had as much privacy as if we were in a hotel room.

“The guys who jumped me, they were either watching your house or…”

“Somebody made a phone call,” he finished for me.

“Yeah.”

“Galya.”

I gave him thirty seconds, then said, “Galya. What’s that?”

“My wife,” he said, like a man watching his oncologist hold up three fingers.

“The girl who came to the door?”

“Yes.”

I waited, patient as the stone I was sitting on. When it finally came, it flowed like pus from a lanced wound.

“Her name is Galina,” he said. “This June, we’ll have been married fifteen years. She was only nineteen when I found her. Nineteen. I was old enough to be her father, but she said that was what she was looking for. She wanted a man, not a boy. A man to take care of her.

“It was through one of those services. A legit marriage bureau, I mean. They screen you, just like they were the girl’s parents. And it’s not some green-card racket, either—I went over there, to Russia, twice before she…before she said she’d come back here with me to live.”

I gave him a no-judgments look, waiting for the rest.

“My Galya wasn’t one of those ‘bought brides,’” the night dweller said, angry at someone who wasn’t there. “That’s just…slavery. Those people sell those girls like they’re fucking cars. Used cars, you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Sure.”

“I was…lonely, okay? Thirty-seven years old, but I felt like I was a hundred. This life…”

I let the silence throb between us, waiting.

“To you, I’m…Never mind,” he finally said, holding up his hand like I’d been about to interrupt him. “I know what I am in your eyes. But where I live, I’m not Charlie Jones, the matchmaker. I’m Benny Siegel, the businessman. I’m respected. Part of the community. I’ve had my house there since I got out of the army. Cost me every dime I had saved up just to make the down, but it was worth it.”

He went silent. I gave him a few seconds, to see if he’d pick it up. When he didn’t, I said, “The army, huh? Were you in—?”

“Yeah, I was there,” he cut me off. “Even got myself a couple of medals for it. Wouldn’t have thought it, would you?”

“I wouldn’t know how to tell,” I answered him, truthfully.

“That’s where I learned to do what I do,” he said. “Down in those fucking tunnels.”

No wonder he’s more comfortable in the dark, I thought, but kept it to myself.

“You weren’t there yourself, were you?” he said, turning his face to me. “No, that’s right. Word is, you were some kind of mercenary. In Africa, right?”

“This isn’t about me, Charlie.”

“No,” he said, forlornly. “I guess it’s not. All right, you want to know, I’ll tell you. Over there, once you got off the line, the whole country was nothing but a giant fucking trading post, like a flea market on steroids. Some people wanted things; other people had things. People wanted things done; there were people who wanted to do those things. Everything got moved: dope, ordnance, medical supplies. Even whole jeeps. I fell into it by accident. A guy asked me, did I know someone who could do something. It doesn’t matter what. Not now. But I did. Know someone, I mean. A sniper.

“That’s where it started. The middle, it’s like a deep trench. You fall into it, then you find out it’s not just deep, it’s long. Endless. One day, you look up, and you can’t see the sky anymore. That’s when you know you’re back in the tunnels. Tunnels so long that you couldn’t walk to the sunlight in your whole life.”

Charlie looked down at his hands, as if seeing the unlit cigarette for the first time. He put it to his lips, used a throwaway butane lighter to get it going. I noticed his hands were steady now. Lancing an abscess will do that sometimes.

“When I came home, I just picked up where I’d left off,” he said. “I had a lot of names and numbers. For a long time, I just worked with people I knew. I’m not sure when it happened, but word got out I was down there, and people looked me up. Like it was my address. Word got around. People who needed things done would look for me. Ask around. And I knew people, too, by then. People I could match them up with. People who knew I could be trusted.”

“Trusted,” I said. Just the word.

“Trusted,” Charlie repeated, a touch of pride slipping into his voice. “You know how the tunnels work?”

“No,” I said. I didn’t know which tunnels he was talking about—Vietnam or New York—but I let him run.

“You have to have something to believe in,” the ferret said. “And it has to be something you can do. Not religion. Rules. You have to do things right. By the book. No matter what comes up, there’s a plan for it. You’ll be all right as long as you stick to the rules. The guys who went down and didn’t come back, it’s always because they forgot the rules.”